Skip to main content

Full text of "The flowing bowl, a drama in three acts"

See other formats

PS 1059 
Copy 1 





Old South Block, No. 10 Milk Street. 

6E0. M. BAKER'S 

Other New Plays: 

i--".-.5^^* -^^ Plnyt- ; by iiic -• 

Couyritrht. 1S76. by Georok M. Baker. 

' THl!] Ib-LOWINO liOWI.. o Acts, Price 25 cts. 
NKVADA; or The Lost Mine. S Acts. Price 23 eta 
PAST KKDKMPTION. 4 Acts. Price 25 cU 
COMRADES. 3 Acts. Price 2o cts 

7u^ltSt\i\r^''K'''P^^H^.'''?}''^'^''''- 2 Acts. Price 25 ctb 
UVIl rOLiKS. 3 Acts. Price 15 cts. 

REBECCA'S TRIUMPH. Female characters only. 25 cts. 

POrsT^V^A^'i^nv^." !? ^J^^Tr' ^ Ch"«tma8 Play for Children By F. E. Cha.e Price 25c 
POISON. As playe . by the "IUsty Pudding Club" of Ilarvard^ColIcire Price 25ctl 

-- — — , ^^uAi Kii xA»iv<ii(^i v^uiieire. I'nce 
1 wo male and two female characters. Price 25ct8. 

Just Pnblislied.— "The Popular Edition" of Baiter's Keading Club and Handy 

Speaker. Nos. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, C,7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, and 14, 50 Selections in each. Price, 15 cts. ea. 

Spencer's Universal Stage. ! 

A Collection of COMEDIES, DRAMAS, and FARCES, adapted to either Public or PHvatt 
Performance. Containing a full description of all the 
necessary Stage Business. 

PRICE, 15 CENTS EACH. (@- No Plays Exchanged. 

I 1. LOST IN LONDON. A Drama in 3 Acts. 
' 6 male, 4 female characters. 

' 2. NICHOLAS FLAM. A Comedy in 2 Acte 
I By J. B. Buckstone. 5 male, 3 female char. . 

I 3. THE WELSH GIF.L. A Comedy in 1 Act. ' 
By Mrs. Planche. 3 male, 2 female char. 

4. JOHN WOPPS. A Farce in 1 Act By 

W. E. Suter. 4 male, 2 female char. 

5. THE TURKISH BATH. L Farce in 1 Act. 
1 By Montague Williams and F. C. Bumond. 
I C male, 1 female char. 40, 
I 6. THE TWO PUDDIPOOTS. A Farce in 1 
I Act. By J. M. Morton. 3 male, 3 female char. 41, 
I L OLD HONESTY. A Comic Drama in 2 

Acts. By J. M. Morton. 5 male- 2 female char. 42. 
Farce in 1 Act. By W. E. Suter. 2 male char. 
3. SMASHING-TON GOIT. A Farce in 1 Act. 
By T. J. Williams. 5 male, 3 fiemale char. 
I Farce in 1 Act. By Lenox Home. 4 male, 

, 1 female char. * 

i n. JOHN DOBBS'. 'a Farce in 1 Act ByJ.M. 
1 Morton. 5 male, 2 female char. 45. 


A Drama in 2 Acts. By Edward Fitzball, 46. 
6 male, 2 female char. 

Act. By J. M. Mortou. 3 male, 3 female char. 47. 
14 BROTHEF, BILL AND ME. A Farce in 
I 1 Act. By W. E. Suter. 4 male, 3 female char. 48. 

16. DONE ON BOTH SIDES. A Farce in 1 
I Act. By J. M. Morton. 3 male, 2 female char. 49. 
I •««. DUNDUCKETTY'S PICNIC. A Farce in 1 
I Act. By T. J. Williams. G male, 3 female char. 

17. I'VE WRITTEN TO BROWNE. A Farce 50. 
^ in 1 Act By T. J. Williams. 4 male, 3 female 

char. 55. 

X8. MY PRECIOUS BETSY. A Farce in 1 

Act. By J. M. Morton. 4 male, 4 female char. 66. 
I ao. MY TURN NEXT. A Farce in 1 Act By 
I T. J. Williams. 4 male, 3 female char. 


in 1 Act. By Chas. Selby. '6 male, 2 i'emale char. 

23. DANDELION'S DODGES. A Farce in 1 

Act By T. J. Williams. 4 male, 2 female char. 

24. A SLICE OP LUCK. A F.irce m 1 Act By 

J. M. Morton. 4 male, 2 female char. 

25. ALWAYS INTENDED. A Comedy in 1 

Act By Horace Wigan. 3 male, 3 female char. 

in 2 Acts. By Charles Matthews. 6 male, 4 61. 

female char. 1^ 

27. ANOTHER GLASS. A Drama in 1 Act By 

Thomas Mortou. C male, 3 female char. 
28: BOWLED OUT. A Farce in 1 A.ct ByH. 63. 

T. Craven. 4 male, 3 female char. 
29. COUSIN TOM. A Commedietta in 1 Act By 64. 

Geo. Roberts. 3 male, 2 female char. 
SO. SARAH'S YOUNG MAN. A Farce in 1 
1 \ct Bv W. E. Suter. S male, 3 female char. 


Farce in 1 Act. By E. Yates and N. U. ilar- 

rington. 7 male, 3 female char. 
82. THE CHRISTENING. A Farce in 1 Act. 67. 

By J. B. Buckstone. & male 6 female char. 
S3. A RACE FOR A WIDOW. A Farce in 1 

Act. By T. J. Williams. 5 male, 4 female char. 

34. YOUR LIFE'S IN DANGER. A Farce in 

1 Act By J. M. Morton. 3 male, 3 female char. 

35. TRUE UNTO DEATH. A Drama in 2 Acts. 70. 
n By J. Sheridau Knowles. 6 male, 2 female char. 

Descriptive Catalogue mailed free on attlieaiiim 1S0 
j GEORGE M. BAKER & CO., OldlSouth Block, 

I No. 10 Milk St., Boston. 


in FAct By W. H. Murray. 10 male, 1 female 

AiOOK AFTER BROWN. A Farce in 1 Act 

By George A. Stuart, M. D. 6 male, 1 female 

MONSEIGNEUR. A Drama in 3 Acts. By 

Thomas Archer. 15 male, 3 female char. 


Farce m 1 Act. By W. E. Suter. 3 male char. 
BROTHER BEN. A Farce in 1 Act Bf % 

M. Morton. 3 male, 3 female char. 
ONLY A CLOD. A Comic Drama in 1 LiA. 

By J. P. Simpson. 4 male, 1 female char. 

Drama in 3 Acts. By George Almar. 10 male, 

2 female char. 

A Drama in 1 Act. By Slingsby Lawrence. 3 

male, 3 female char. 

Farce in 1 Act. By J. M. Morton. 3 male, 2 

female char. 

By T. J. Wi.liams. 4 male, 2 female char. 
MARY M30 ; or, Which shall I Marry? 

A Faice in L Act By W. E. Suler. 2 male, 1 

female char. 
EAST L YNNE. A Drama in 5 Acts. 8 male, 

7 female char. 
THE HIDDEN HAND. A Drama in 5 Acts. 

By Robert Jones. 16 male, 7 female char. 
etta in I Acf.. By 11. R. Audrews. 4 male, 3 fe- 
male char. 
DORA. A Pastoral Drama in 3 Acts. By <^m. 

Reade. 6 male, 2 female char. 
THJi! WIFE'S SECRET. A Play in 6 Acts. 

By Geo. W. Love!i. 10 male, 2 female char. 

edy in 3 Acts. By Tom Taylor. 10 male. 3 le- 

male chai% 
PUTKINS -, Heir 1 D Castles in the Air. 

A Comic Drama in i Act By W. R. Emerson. 

2 male, 2 fe.i.ale char. 
.A.N UGLY CUSTOMER. A Farce in 1 Act 

By Thomas J. Williams. 3 male, 2 fiemale char. 
BLUE AND CHERRY. A Comedy in 1 Act 

3 malp, 2 female char. o 

1 Act 3 male, 2 fen>alc char. 

Acts. 8 male, 7 female char. 

ville. 1 male, 2 female char. 

MADAM IS ABED. A Vaudeville in 1 Act. 

2 male, 2 female char. 

2 male, 2 female char. 
THE CLEFT STICK. A Comedy in 3 Acts. 

6 male, 3 female char. 

AND A TiJlLOR. A Farce in 1 Aci. 4 male, 

2 female char. 

2 male, 2 icmale char. 

male, 4 female char. 
A HUSBAND TO ORDER. A Serio-comic 

Drama in 2 Acts. 5 male, 3 female char. 
PAY;»BLE on demand, a Domestic 

Drama in 2 Acta. 7 male, 1 female char. 


a ^mma in Ci^ree actsi 




No. 10 Milk Street 



0^ '<^W 


MARTIN MOORE, A Slave of the Cup. 
MAJOR FITZPATRICK, His Boon Companion, 
HERBERT POOLE, Rich and Reckless. 
CLIFTON JEROME, A young Lawyer 
CHARLIE WILKINS, A too willing Captive. 
PETE, A Black Boy, aged 6o 

MARION MOORE, The Daughter of ? 

MRS. MORRIS, Martin's Sister. 

JESSIE MORRIS, *'A Terrible Torment." 


Martin. — Gray wig, smooth red face, lines strongly marked (but avoid a 
repulsive red nose) ; dress suitable for a man of sixty at a summer resort. 

Major. — Close-crop reddish wig, and flowing side-whiskers turning gray; red 
face (careful of the nose) ; make-up fat. On first appearance, a red handker- 
chief tied about his head, a long linen duster. On his second appearance, a neat 
suit of summer wear, duster and handkerchief removed, and a brisk, hearty 

Poole and Jerome — Handsome summer suits. 

Charlie Wilkins. — Yachtsman's suit As the cowboy, pants tucked in 
boots, red shirt, belt about waist in which are stuck two carving-knives and a 
pistol, a lasso coiled hung at his belt on the right side, wig of long red hair, long 
red mustache, and long chin-beard; very broad brim slouch hat. 

Richard. — Sailor trousers, shirt, and jacket of blue; black kerchief for neck, 
straw hat, grizzled wig and beard. 

Pete. — Gray wig, mustache, and chin-beard; black suit, white tie; carries 
himself like a ramrod, with occasional collapses and recoverings, with groans to 
show that it is hard work 

Ladies. — As suit their tastes, their ages, and the place. 

Copyright, 1885, 



Act I. — Parlor in a seaside hotel, c, itiflat, doors open on 
piazza ; set railing to piazza, backed by light-blue curtain 
to represeiit sky ; 'long windows r. and "L. in flat, with lace 
curtains looped v.. and i.., pots of flowers or vines in one 
or both windows ; doors r. and l. 2 E. ; lounge L. between 
I and 2 E. ; arm-chair r. betzveen i and 2 E. ; table c, 
opposite doors ; aim-chairs K. and \.. of it. Marion dis- 
covered seated l. of table, j-eading a newspaper j Mrs. 
Morris on lou/ige, crocheting. 

Mrs. M. Any news, Marion ? 

Marion. No, auntie, nothing that will interest you, un- 
less it is that old advertisement which re-appears. {Reads.) 
" Five hundred dollars reward for any reliable information 
concerning Nathan Roberts, a returned Californian who 
with his daughter landed in New York, Feb. 6, 1865. Ad- 
dress Perkins & Jerome, counsellors at law, New York." 

Mrs. M. It's the same old story, with a slight change 
this time. Mr. Perkins has given the missing man a daugh- 
ter, never mentioned before, "and taken to himself a partner. 
Jerome, Jerome : it can't be — 

Marion. Yes, it is, auntie, — our friend Clifton Jerome, 
whose ears you boxed so unmercifully because he fairly beat 
you at cards. 

Mrs. M. He deserved it: he cheated. 

Marion. Don't say that, auntie. He is an honorable 
gentleman: I am glad he has obtained so fine a position. 
Mr. Perkins has long stood among the leaders in his pro- 



fession ; and with such an adviser Clifton Jerome, talented, 
enthusiastic, and determined, has a glorious career before 

Mrs. M. Ah ! the junior partner is a lucky man. The 
eloquence of his appeal to a jury must work wonders, when 
the mere mention of his name has such an effect upon so 
cool and so apathetic a nature as yours, Marion. We must 
have him down here. 

Marion. Not for the world ! our social circle could have 
no charms for him. 

Mrs. M. Well, I don't know about that. Here we are 
comfortably settled in a snug little seaside hotel, with the 
genial Major Fitzpatrick and the elegant Mr. Poole slaves 
at our call, and, last but not least, your father, a little grumpy 
and grouty perhaps as a companion, but a capital manager 
of the financial department, who sees that we want for noth- 
ing money can supply. You've only to make up your mind 
to be gay and happy, and the summer will pass hke a dream. 

Marion. Ah, auntie, but those slaves of ours ! Their 
midnight revels drive sleep from my eyes. The click of 
glasses, the shuffle of cards, the rattle of dice, all terrify me. 

1 dread every moment to hear their laughter change to 
oaths and curses. To be freed from this life of torture, I 
would gladly exchange wealth and comfort for poverty and 

Mrs. M. It's not a pleasant prospect as viewed by your 
young eyes. But when one has buried three husbands, as I 
have, all of whom went to their graves preserved in alcohol, 
it looks very much as if that was the way of the world, and 
sobriety the exception. But you haven't had my experience. 

Marion. Not with husbands, auntie. But I have had 
the bitter cup always before my eyes. My father made his 
money by the traffic. My mother died when I was too 
young to remember her, and until you came to live with us 
two years ago I gave it little thought. But then I saw a 
change in my father: before genial and kind, though never 
loving to me, he then became what you see him now, stern 
and fretful, and on the least provocation angry and cruel. 
Ah ! 'tis the future I dread. What is in store for us.? 

Mrs. M. For you, a good husl^and and a happy home, I 
hope. You deserve it. For him — Well, he's his own 
master now, and must have his fling. He shall have a piece 


of my mind, and that very soon ; and, if he is your father, 
he shall not abuse you. 

Marion. I do not fear him, auntie: 'tis the other, Her- 
bert Poole — 

Mrs. M. The fat chicken your father and the major are 
trying to pluck. Why do }0U fear him ? 

Marion. He has spoken to me several times in a way I 
cannot mistake. 

Mrs. M. Just as I thought. He admires you, any one 
can see that. He's a great catch : his father's a million- 
naire, and he an only child. He's going to ask you to be 
his wife. 

Marion. No, no, not that! I could not be happy 'as his 
wife. I hope he will never ask me. 

Mrs. M. But he will, and you are a foolish girl if you 
refuse him. 

Marion. It would 1)6 wicked to accept a man I cannot 
love. So I'll trust the old proverb, "Better a fool than a 

[Enter c. Jessie.). 

Jessie. Ha, ha, ha! such a racket! Students forever! 
There are those four college fellows who came down here to 
help in the dining-room, lounging on the rocks, while poor 
old Pete is frantically waving a napkin from the window of 
the pantry in which they have locked him. There's music 
in 4;he air, mammy, such a lark ! {Sifs r.) 

Mrs. M. Jessie Morris, haven't I f9rbidden you to use 
slang ? 

Jessie. 'Spec' you have, mammy ; but it's the proper caper 
in polite language, and so stunning! Besides, my Charlie 
is a slanguist ; and you've often told me, with tears in your 
eyes, to pattern my conduct after his. 

Mrs. M. "Stunning!" "Slanguist!" Jessie, you'll 
drive me wild. And "your Charlie!" Is that the way to 
speak of a gentleman whom you expect to marry.? 

Jessie. Whom I — expect — I expect to marry. Not 
much ! Charlie is the awfully expectant one. I'm the 
"hope deferred which maketh the heart sick ; " and if that 
delicate organ in his susceptible bosom hasn't been stirred 
by all the ills that hearts are heir to, I've missed my calling. 

Mrs. M. You little torment ! You don't deserve such a 


Jessie. No ? I'm determined he shall deserve me. He's 
only on approbation anyway, like a piece of goods sent home 
from the store ; if not suitable, packed off. He's on proba- 
tion, undergoing a series of tests of affection. 

Marion. If he succeeds, what then? 

Jessie. Oh! I'll give him some more. 

Mrs. M. Take care, child : you may go too far, and lose 

Jessie. Ha, ha, ha ! lose my Charlie ! never: he's hooked 
fast. I'm only following the advice of Richard Bell, the 
best boatman on the coast : " When you've hooked your fish, 
don't be in a hurry to land him : play him a little ; it weakens 
him, and he won't flounder when he's taken off." 

Mrs. M. The idea of treating Charles Wilkins as you 
would a fish ! 

Jessie. Why not ? Didn't you tell me, when Gale Hooker 
sacked me, that he was a scaly fellow ? 

Mrs. M. Jessie Morris ! I never — 

Jessie. Oh, yes you did, mammy! that was your rather 
slangy remark, and that there were as good fish in the sea 
as ever were caught*. 

Mrs. M. Well-, what of it? 

Jessie. Then Charlie came along, and you said he was 
(excuse the slang) a great catch. 

Mrs. M. I never — 

Jessie. Yes, you did, mammy; and if I only angled right 
I might scoop him. 

Mrs. M. Jessie Morris! 

Jessie. And then he asked me to drop him a line when I 
arrived. Oh, I'm right, mammy! Charlie's very much like a 
fish: he's too fresh. 

Mrs. M. Jessie Morris, drop that slang. If I hear any 
more of it, I shall shout. 

Jessie (jimtps tip). Ha, ha, ha ! 

Who taught my youthful lips the way 
To catch the slanguage of the day ? 
Why, she, the matron I obey, — 

My mammy. 

O Mrs. Morris ! it's no use pressing your lips : you have 
shouted, and you're just as bad as any of us. I blush for 
you. {Sits R.) 


{Bell rings L.) 

Marion. Father's bell ! where's Uncle Pete ? 

Pete {pntside). Now you jes' min' what I tole you : ef 
you lock me inter dat yar pantry agin, I'll raise der roof, — 
mind, raise der roof. {Enters R.) 

Mrs. M. Pete, what's the trouble now.? 

Pete. Same ole trubble, missis, now and for ebber. 
Dem ar four stujents jes' shook dar unibersitary, an' wid 
dar heads full ob Greek and Latin roots, come down year to 
be waiters. Jes' fool demselves, fool demselves. Why — 
why, dey don't know nuffin 'bout der tic-tacs ob de waitah ; 
der — der abolitions ob genius dat mark der waitah; der 
nerve, der consequential misdemeanor ob der waitah — ain't 
got der gall. Den dar table etiquate, jes' look at it ! Put 
He fork ober to de right ob de plate, an' de knife ober de 
lef ; stick de big2:est kin' ob a graby-spoon into de sugar- 
bowl, an' de carbing-knife into de butter, an' call dat settin' 
a table. Jes' sets me wild ! I tole 'em 'twas no use, waiters 
are born, not made, and dey'd better drop ebery ting and 
hump demselves. {Crash outside r.) 

Jessie. They're evidently taking your advice. 

Pete {looking off r.) Now jes' Took a' dar ! Dat ar stu- 
jent drapped somefin ; and dar he stands, wid a tear in his 
eye, lookin' down on der remains. No blue-blood waitah 
would do dat. 

Jessie. What would he do. Uncle Pete? 

Pete. When de dishes decomposed demselves onto de 
flo', he'd vamoose into de pantry libely. 

Jessie. Yes, "scatter the chink, and leave others to 

Pete. Den dey's lackin' in modesty, dat crown ob glory 
in a waitah. When a gent calls "Waitah," free or four ob 
dem stujents jes' rush pell-mell, as if dey was gwine to a fire 
or de fus' table at a barbecue. No fus'-family waitah does 
dat. {Imitates) At de fus' call he lays his years back, 
looks pleasant if he kin, and listens ; at de second call, 
opens his eyes, and looks wild; at de third, moves slowly 
and gracefully ob coorse, towards de suppliant fur his bounty. 
At de fourfe, he's at his elbow wid a gentle, " Call sar, yes 
sar." It's no use: must presarbe de dignity ob de profesh, 
or de whole structure ob s'ciety am underdone. 

Jessie. " One to make ready, two to prepare, three to go 


slam-bang," four you is dar. Ha, ha, ha ! Uncle Pete, you 
are the beau ideal oi a servitor. 

Pete. Miss Jessie, I aint much of a beau, an' — an' I don't 
idle much ; but Pse been servin' fer upwards of twenty years 
an' Ps sumfin ob a canooser if dat is what you mean {Bell 
rings L.) ^ 

Martin {outside l.). Pete, Pete, you rascal ' 

Pete. O Lor'! dat bell, an' I foolin' here! {Crosses to 
door L.) ^ 

Jessie. Uncle Pete. 

Pete. Yas, Miss Jessie. 

Jessie. He's only rung twice : lay back your ears, open 
your eyes and look wild. "We must preserbe de dio-nitv 
ob de profesh." ^ ^ 

Pete. Dat's so in de abstract; but de han' dat pulls dat 
yar bell am mighty apt t'o pull wool, an' in dat abstraction 
dignity don't count. {Exit L.) 

Jessie {Jumping up). What's the programme to-day, 
Marion.? ^ •'' 

Marion. I have nothing to propose, Jessie : I shall be 
very quiet. 

Jessie. Oh dear! that won't suit me. The idea of com- 
ing down here to be quiet ! It's monstrous. It's an insult to 
that beautiful sea, in constant motion. Quiet! not forme, 
thank 30U. Sailing gayly over the waters, climbing and 
scrambling among the rocks, swimming and diving amid the 
surf, dancing and waltzing with moonlight and music till 
midnight, and waking in the morning with a headache,— 
that's seaside life. I can manage all but the dancing: there 
are no fellows. Yes, we've the" students to fall bade upon. 
I'll just raid the kitchen, and set them up for a fandango this 
very night. 

Mrs. M. You'll do nothing of the kind, Jessie. A pack 
of waiters ! What would Mr.' Wilkins say ? 

Jessie. He'd say I was a jolly girl for taking care of his 
friends. Charlie's one of them : he's a student. 

Mrs. M. He'd feel flattered at being classed as a waiter. 

Jessie. He is a waiter, a patient waiter — for me. 
^ Mrs. M. You'll do very .well without any masculine so- 
ciety. Imitate Marion, and enjoy a little quiet. 

Jessie. Marion, indeed ! I'm sure she longs just as much 
as I do for the advent of one good able-bodied gentlenianly 
fellow to break the monotony of our present existence. " 


Marion. I wish for your sake, Jessie, a dozen such would 
appear ; but, as for me, I would not care if I never saw a man 

Jessie. When a girl talks like that, be sure she is just 
heart-sick for the presence of somebody in particular, whom 
her imagination and a pair of high-heeled boots have lifted 
a little higher than ordinary masculine mortals. 
(Jerome appears c.) 

Jerome. May I come in ? 

Jessie. And there he is ! {Sits r.) 

Marion {Jumping up). Mr. Jerome ! is it possible ? 

Jerome {comes down, and takes Marion's hand). Judge 
for yourself ; happy to meet you again. What a color the sea 
is giving you ! {Turns and shakes hands with Jessie, who 
rises.) 'Ah, Miss Jessie! this is the place for you. 
- Jessie. Now that a real man has come, yes. 

Jerome {crosses, ajid shakes hands with Mrs. Morris). 
And how is my old opponent of the card-table ? Mrs. Morris, 
whenever I think of you, my ears tingle. 

Mrs. M. a guilty conscience, Mr. Jerome. It was very 
kind of you to look us up. Marion was just wishing you — 

Marion. Auntie ! 

Jessie. Mother! 

Mrs. M. Now, what's the matter ? — Wishing you success 
in your new enterprise. No harm in that, is there ? 

Jerome. Certainly not. (T^ Marion) I shall prize the 
kind regard as a happy omen of coming victory. {All sit; 
Mrs. M. on lounge, Jerome l. of table, 1s\a.^\o^ r. of table, 
Jessie chair r.) Rambling about the piazza, and seeing your 
doors open, I ventured to speak. It's rather early for a call : 
hope I'm not in the way.'' 

Marion. No, indeed. Then, you are stopping here? 

Jerome. For the present, yes. I'm down here on busi- 
ness ; rather a romantic sort. 

Jessie. Romantic ? Looking for a wife .? 

Mrs. M. More likely, a divorce case. 

Jerome. Both wrong. I'm looking for a missing million- 

Mrs. M. a millionnaire ! This is a queer place to look 
for him. 

Jerome. Yes ; but he's about here, I'm certain . It is my 
good fortune to be the partner of an old friend of my father, 


who is trying to lift me into the profession through his posi- 
tion and influence. Twenty years ago he one day received 
in his office an old acquaintance, whom he had not seen for 
years. On this occasion he was accompanied by a little o-irl 
five or six years of age. He announced himself as a%- 
turned Cahfornian, who had lost his wife on the passa^re 
home. His errand was to get Mr. Perkins to take charge 
of Ills funds, some ten thousand dollars, for investment 
while he was seeking a home for his child. He left his 
money, departed, and has never been seen from that time 
Mrs. M. And the money ? 

Jerome. Was carefully invested, and re-invested with 
always increasing returns; so that now, with houses, stocks, 
and ands, the unknown, if he is found, will be a very 
wealthy man. ^ 

Marion. It must be the missincr Nathan Roberts. 
Mrs. M. Whom you read about just now. 
Jerome. Exactly. Thatadvertisement has appeared year 
alter year without any application for the reward. The ad- 
dition of my name to the advertisement seems to have brouo-ht 
good luck; for three days ago an old Californian imparled 
the pleasing intelligence that he had seen and recoo-nized 
the missing man in this place. With this clew I am here 
to hunt up the lost one, with the Californian as a com- 
panion. Unfortunately the bar-room here has proved too 
great an attraction for my witness : he became beastlv intoxi- 
cated, and I am obliged to wait the termination of his spree 
So you see, ladies I am out of business and in for pleasure. 
By the way, Miss Jessie, I came round in a yacht, and had 
for company Mr. Charles Wilkins. 
Jessie. My Charlie! Where is he? 
Jerome. The fact is, Charlie is not the sailor one would 
have imagined from his appearance and demeanor on start- 
}^rl.°nf 1 "''''' ""'' ^^^'"^ recovering from a severe at- 

small boat to come ashore. 

Jessie. Ha, ha ha! that's just like Charlie: he's a 
spkndid sailor on shore, but out to sea, oh, my! he's all at 

Jerome (nsin^) Suppose we go and look him up. 
lEslTL'T^u J,^'^«^ld be delighted. Come, Jessie. 
Jessie. No, I thank you : I'm not prepared to look him 


up, or look up to him, in his present condition. If he wants 
me, here I am. 

Jerome. Ready to receive him with open arms. Be 
kind to him, Jessie, for Charhe Wilkins is one of the best 
fellows I know. 

Jessie. Is he? I'd no idea your acquaintance was so 

Jerome (fo Mrs. Morris). Will you accompany us ? 

Mrs. M. {rising quickly). I should be pleased — 

Jessie. Um, um. {Making faces and gestures she is to 

Mrs. M. Did you speak, Jessie? 

Jessie {with gest teres as before; Jerome and Marion 
converse apart). You're not going to leave me alone 1 

Mrs. M. {looking first at Jerome, and then at Jessie). 
I should be pleased to {sits) some other time. 

Jerome {crosses to Jessie). You shall not be left alone. 
{lakes her hand.) Good girl, I owe you one, and I'll go find 
him. (7> Marion.) Shall we start," Miss Moore.? 

Marion. I am quite ready. {They go up and off piazza 
R., conversing). 

Mrs. M. Now, I'd like to know what all that telegraphing 
was for. 

Jessie. Don't you see they are in love? Didn't you 
notice what a color the sea gave her when she saw him? 

Mrs. M. In love ? They in love ? What will your 
uncle say ? 

Jessie. If he is wise, he will say nothing; if otherwise, 
there'll be an explosion. 

Martin {outside l.). Start yourself, quick! (Pete tum- 
bles in from L. ; doorslam7?ied.) 

Jessie. Something like that. 

Pete. Der ole man's a little feveish dis mornin'. Can't 
do nuffin' wid him. He won't git up, he won't lie down ; but 
he jest rolls hisself about on de ragged edge ob dispair, 
rehearsing der hole book ob Lamentations. Said der wa'nt 
nobody in de wide world lobed him, and I standin' dar all 
de time. I tole him he was mistook, an' I said, "Yas, dar 
is, Massa Moore ; I don't keer if you is white, I lubs you as 
if you was my own brudder." Dat kinder mollified him,, 
roused him, fired him, an — an — he fired me fro' de door. 
{Crosses to R.) I'se tender feelin's, an de least ting moves 


me; jes' de liftin' ob a number nine boot startles me el:ery 
time. {Exit R.) 

Mrs. AI. {rises). I'll go and see what's the trouble. 
{Exit L.) 

Jessie. So Charlie's here ! I thought he wouldn t stay 
away long; that not even his dread of the sea would prevent 
his obeying my express order that if he came he must come 
by water, and in a yacht too, which of all things he detests. 
I'd like to have seen his face when they struck rough water. 
Ha, ha, ha! 

Charlie {outside c, sijtgs). 

" We sail the waters blue, 
And our saucy ship's a beauty." 

{Appears door c.) Ahoy ! ahoy there ! {Hitches his trou- 
sers, sailor fashion.) Ah, my — my darling ! {Comes down 
stags^ering.) '-The sweet little cherub who sits up aloft" 
{catches at table) — steady, steady ! 

Jessie. Charlie, have you been drinking? 

Charlie. Drinking, Jessie ? you know that's not one of 
my faults. 

Jessie. But you pitch about so ! 

Charlie {catches table). That's the peculiar nautical roll 
which one acquires from familiarity with the deep. Yacht- 
ing, Jessie, is glorious : you've no idea what fun there is in 
it. {Aside.) Fun for the boys. {Aloud) You should have 
seen me at the helm, grasping the — what is it, — and 
shouting my orders : " Belay there, belay ! Haul taut that 
jib. Let go the main sheet. Heave to, and clap on more 
sail!" and then the ecstasy of feeling yourself slipping 
through the water at the rate of forty hours a knot. No, 
not that, but knotty forts — pshaw ! 

Jessie. Skip the knots, Charlie. 

Charlie. And then to lean lazily over the side, and gaze 
far down into the depths of ocean, and feel as if you v/ere 
throwing your — your — 

Jessie. Boots, Charlie? 

Charlie. " Soul " was the word I was seeking, Miss 

Jessie. Well, I helped you to a pair of them. But, 
Charlie, was all this before you turned in, or after? 

Charlie. Turned in ? 


Jessie. When you were afraid one moment you were 
going to die, and the next that you wasn't. O Charlie ! 
it's no use trying to carry sail : you don't know the tiller from 
a tar-bucket. The log of your last voyage has been over- 
hauled, and you are set down as a stowaway, neither useful 
nor ornamental; ha, ha, ha! Mr. Jerome has been here, 

Charlie. He has ? Then the nautical craze is over. 
Jessie. And one more test of affection — I can't say you 
were able to stand that test, Charlie — turned in to your ac- 

Charlie. Isn't it about time that account was settled. 
Miss Morris.? Don't 3'ou think I've been making a fool of 
myself, for your sake, quite long enough ? 
Jessie. Not quite, Charlie. 

Charlie. I do. Allow me to call your attention to the 
dangers I have encountered by sea and land, at your insti- 

Jessie. Go on : I do like a blood-curdling romance. 
Charlie. Romance ? Great Scott ! 
Jessie. Well, he was a romancer: beat him if vou can. 
Charlie. When, in the exuberance of the unfolding of a 
youthful affection, I flung myself at your feet last summer 
at the mountains, and swore you were the only woman I had 
ever loved — 

Jessie. Your own original remarks. 

Charlie. You transp^orted me with the declaration that 
my attentions were not altogether distasteful to you. You 
further told me, that, could I stand the several tests of affec- 
tion to which you ahuays subjected your admirers, you — 
you — would see about it. 
Jessie. Well, that was fair, wasn't it ? 
Charlie. Fair.? If I had caught at that time an idea of 
what your previous admirers had attempted, I should have 
sought the place where you bury your victims, picked out a 
soft place, and taken a rest. 

Jessie. A soft place ! Why, you are running ahead — 
Charlie. Miss Morris ! 
Jessie. Of your story. Proceed. 

Charlie. I consented, and calmly awaited vour first test. 
It came with a rush. Seated on the piazza of 'the hotel one 
morning I was aroused by the rattle of wheels and frantic 


cries of " Help ! help ! " Looking down the road, I saw a 
galloping horse with a buggy behind him, and in that buggy 
you. I rushed down, seized the animal by the bits, and the 
next moment found myself rolling in the dust. When I re- 
covered my equilibrium, and had cleared my ears of dust, you 
were trotting leisurely away, shouting — 

Jessie. Ha, ha, ha! a test of affection, Charlie. 

Charlie. Exactly. On another occasion, the same cries 
for " Help, help ! " directed my attention seaward to an over- 
turned boat, a mile from shore, to the keel i>i which you 
were clinging. Heedless of my apparel, I plunged into the 
water, and after a tough swim reached the boat just in time 
to see you in bathing costume leisurely swim shoreward, 
while I had to cling to the keel until somebody came and 
took me in. 

Jessie. Didn't I come after you? Didn't I take you in? 

Charlie. You did, — twice the same day. Then there 
was the great bull-fight. At that time you were deeply 
interested in the exploits of the hero of a then popular 
romance, "The Matador of ALidrid." Inspired with admi- 
ration for that reckless " son of merry Spain," you were 
anxious I should emulate his exploits, become an amateur 
matador, and attack a bovine of the masculine gender, 
who was monarch of all he surveyed in a pasture adjoining 
the hotel. In the particular state of ecstasy in which I then 
found myself, I would have attacked a boiling locomotive 
and driven it from the track at your command : so, with your 
red shawl floating from my left hand, and with a pitchfork 
grasped in my right, I leaped the fence, and faced the bull. 

Jessie. Boldly and fearlessly. 

Charlie. To all appearance, yes. There was a slight 
disturbance just under my ribs ; but I faced his majesty, 
whom I was about to despatch d la matador^ and shouted, 
" Come on ! " Of course no well-trained bull could resist 
such an invitation : he came on. There was a confusion of 
horns, pitchfork, shawl, and matador, one wild bellow, sev- 
eral terrific yells, and a cyclone into which I was hurled. 
I came down somewhere in the next county, and retired 
from the matador business forever. 

Jessie. You stood that test well. Any thing more ? 

Charlie. That, with your last attempt to bring me round 
by water, completes the programme. If I live to relate my 


experience, it's because I was born under a lucky star. It's 
a wonder to me you have not sent me to stand up before 
some of those bruisers of Madison Square. 

Jessie. Oh, I never thought of that! 

Charlie {quickly). Then, don't. 

Jessie. That would be not only a test of affection, but 
of endurance. 

Charlie {aside). What a fool I was to mention it! 
{Aloud.) Don't think of it for a moment : any thing but that ! 

Jessie. Then, I'll give you an easy one. 

Charlie. Insatiate damsel, give me no more. I've been 
bruised and battered fighting your windmills. Let me rest 
a while by your side, and — and — spoon. 

Jessie. Speaking of spoons, Charlie, do you know that 
four of your college fellows are in this hotel, engaged in 
rattling those useful table articles } 

Charlie. Oh, yes ! some of our fellows on a lark. Doing 
well, ain't they? 

Jessie. So well, Charlie, that I am anxious to see you at 
the same occupation. 

Charlie. Me ! see me waiting on tables ! Well, I like 

Jessie. I knew you would. 

Charlie. Miss Morris, I respectfully but firmly decline. 

Jessie. I have set my heart upon it. 

Charlie. Then, the quicker you take your heart off its 
ridiculous resting-place, and restore it to its original setting, 
the better for your health and my future happiness. 

Jessie. Ah ! but you'll do it all the same. It shall be 
another test of affection. 

Charlie. Test be — blest ! Understand me, Miss Morris, 
I am your humble servant to command in any thing reason- 
able ; but as for girding my waist with a white apron, and 
being the humble servant at the beck and call of every 
loafer who wants a fish-dinner or a clam-bake, never ! 

Jessie. Oh, yes, you will, Charlie ! 

Charlie. By the great horn spoon — 

Jessie. That sounds like a waiter's oath. 

Charlie {turning up stage). Good-morning, Miss Morris. 

Jessie. Where are you going ? 

Charlie. Back to town. 

Jessie. By water } 


Charlie. By rail, the shortest and fastest route. 

Jessie. Well, good-by. 

Charlie. Forever. (Going.) 

Jessie. By the way, Charlie, you spoke of bringing down 
an engagement ring. 

Charlie (returns). I have brought it, but — 

Jessie. You might leave it v/ith one of the college boys, 
for I'm sure a collegian in a white apron will be the man of 
my choice. 

Charlie. That settles it. Where is the keeper of this 
shebang? I'll engage myself for waiter, cook, scullion, 
bootblack, any thing, as a test of affection, bah ! {Exit r.) 

Jessie. Ha, ha, ha! Poor Charlie ! {Rises.) Won't there 
be a smash among the crockery.? I'll follow, and see the 
sport: they'll be sure to haze W\^ fresh man. {Exit R.) 

Martin (c»//toV/t' L.). What are you talking about.? {E71- 
ters 1..., followed by Mrs. Morris.) I'm surely old enough 
to take care of myself, to know my own mind. 

Mrs. M. Too old to make a fool of yourself, carousing 
night after night, at your time of life. 

Martin. Shut up ! 

Mrs. M. Shut up ! I wish you were, where you belong, 
in an insane-asylum. Do you think I'm blind.? Though 
you call yourself rich, I tell you no fortune can stand such 
plunges as you are making into yours. Your health is 
broken : you are peevish, fretful, and ugly. Shut up, indeed ! 
A pretty way to talk to your sister! Mark my words, Mar- 
tin Moore : if you don't turn square round, and break off in 
your evil courses, your funeral is set down for no distant 
day. Shut up, indeed ! {Exit L.) 

Martin {sitting i.. of table). She's right: I am breaking 
up. Oh, my head! my head! Rich, indeed! I've had a 
run of bad luck that has nearly swamped me, — so bad that I 
don't see how I am to get away from this hotel without help. 
Now, here's a quarrel with my sister, whose bank-account 
might have helped me. Curse the luck ! 

{Enter Major Fitzpatrick, r.) 

Major. Are ye there, Martin, me by? 

Martin. Hallo, Fitz ! how's your head? 

Major (sits r. of table). Jist shplittin', me by. Bad luck 
to the owld punkin ! it's howldin' a wake over' the remains 
of the late merry Major Fitzpatrick. Oh ! it's moighty illi- 



g:ant, the faste of rason, and the f^ow of sowl, an' the jiff's a 
loively one while the glasses are dancin' and the corks bob- 
bin'. But whin you've to play the piper for that same ]\^ 
the nixt mornin' wid the Divil's own tattoo batin' forninsi 
yer skull, you've no ear to kape stip wid the music, me bv. 

Martin. Grumbling, you old toper.? Have you seen 
snakes this morning ? 

Major. Niver a shnake.' Spakin' ov the varmints, do 

you mind the shtory, that St. Patrick druv the last shnake 

in Ould Oireland int' a chist, double locked the front dure 

and tossed him into the say.? ' 

Martin. I've heard the story. 

Major. It's all a mishtake, me by : it was a whiskev-cask 
he druv him into, wid his legs shtickin' out of the bun^-hole 
An' he didn't drop into the say at all at all; for he's" been 
walkin' op and down the earth iver since, as many a poor 
fellow can tistify, who's looked afther him wid shtrono- 
glasses. * 

Martin. Old man ! what's the matter with you ? 
_ Major. I'm jist afther ruminatin' a bit. That same 
shnake must have had a powerful soakin', for he's been in 
liquor iver since. 

Martin. I wish he was in yours. 

Major. Faith, I'm thinkin' we'll both w^ake up some 
foine mornin' in toime to say the tail ind of the procession. 
Well, Ave've had a merry-go-round since we fust clinked 
glasses, twinty years ago, at " The Flowing Bowl." 
Martin. Hush ! don't speak that name here. 
_ Major. Martin, me by, you're not goin' back on the old 
sign where you first made money? 

Martin. You know there are reasons why my life at 
that place should not be too carefully looked into. 

Major. You mane the little shindy we had one nio-ht 
w'ld a stranger. He flung a glass at you: it missed, and 
shtruck his little girl. Oh, murder, what a night ! We were 
all blind drunk. 

Martin. The stranger fled, the child died of its injuries. 
Major. So you've often towld me. 

Martin. I wouldn't like to have my daughter hear of 
this, it might distress her: so be careful' how you allude to 
(/oo^s roimd) " The Flowing Bowl." Where did we leave off 
last night } 


Major. Where we began, me by, — wid whiskey. 

Martin. Pshaw ! I mean at cards. 

(Herbert Poole lounges in, c, and listens.) 

Major. I've an indishtinct recollection that we left off 
at cards moighty oftin to lubricate our fingers wid a shmell 
at the bottle. 

Martin. And so lost our heads. Fitz, we have been 
playing a losing game with Herbert Poole. We thought we 
had in him a young and inexperienced fellow, rich in funds 
and with great expectations, whom two old hands like our- 
selves could easily make pay roundly for his experience. 
But we are outwitted at every point. He keeps his head, 
and rakes the pile, while we — 

Major. Allow our social instincts to rise superior to the 
love of filthy lucre. Doesn't the woise man say, " Betther a 
bowl of smokin' punch than a faste of dry chips ".? Bedad ! 
Let him rake the chips : we'll cool our mortification wid the 
hot punch. 

Martin. Do you know how we stand ? 

Major. Together, me by, as long as we can shtand ! 
and whin we fall, faith, we'll take a drop together. 

Martin. Fitz, be serious if you can. We must find 
some way to raise money. Pm dead broke. 

Major. You don't mane it, me by.'* 

Martin. I must know at once how I stand with Herbert 

Poole {at back of table). And so you shall, Martin my 

IvIartin. Poole ! 

Major. Ah ! the top uv the morning to ye's, my boy. 

Poole {comes down R.). Major, Pm'glad to see you sit- 
ting up this morning: the last I saw of you was under the 
table, doubled up. 

Major. Doubled op, indade ! Faith, ye's eyesight must 
have been a bit onsteady, to have seen two of me to onct. 

Poole {sitting r.). Gentlemen, I heard a remark, as I 
entered the room, touching our financial standing. I think 
I can enlighten you {takes ont pocket-book): I have just been 
looking over my memoranda, and find, Major, several 
I O U's of yours, the total footing of which is thirty-two 
hundred dollars. 

Major. Thirty-two ! Begorra, there's a mishtake in the 
figgers. How would I owe the loikes of what I niver had .^ 


Poole. There is no mistake : that is the footing. 

Major. If that's the footing, I've not a financial leg to 
shtan' upon, me by. 

Poole. You can settle at your convenience. 

Major. Faith, an' I will, I'm obleeged to ye's. 

Poole. You, Martin Moore, are my debtor in the sum 
of sixty-eight hundred. 

Martin. You are crazy, Poole ! I owe you no such 

Poole. Here are the documents, your signature — 

Martin. I've been swindled, outrageously swindled ! 

Poole. No, you have been fairly beaten at your own 
game. You thought 'I was young and inexperienced, a 
chicken to be plucked by two bold hawks. Remember, it 
was you who proposed the game, not I. You would have 
taken my money if you could. Luck was against you, and I 
take yours. 

Major {rises). It's my opinion, Martin, that for a shmall 
baste, the chicken has a moighty long bill. {Ttinis tip stage.) 

Poole. Will you give me your check .^ 

Martin. If that will satisfy you, yes. But it would be 

Poole. Worthless ? 

Martin. Yes ; for I have no funds to meet it. I am 
ruined. {Head in hands.) 

Poole {crosses io chair., R. of table). Not quite, Martin : 
you have a daughter. 

Martin. Well? 

Poole. Give her to me, and we are quits. 

Martin. Would you ruin her as you have me? 

Poole. She shall be a queen of society, wealthy, courted, 
admired. I w^ould make her my wife. 

Martin. Your wife ? You mean it ? 

Poole. On her wedding-day, — provided I am her hus- 
band, of course, — I will not only cancel your indebtedness 
to me, but I will place to your credit ten thousand dollars. 

Martin {aside). His wife! Here's luck! {Aloud) 
Poole, she is yours {shakes hands). I couldn't hope for a 
better future for my daughter. Fitz, do you hear? 

Major. Faith, I'm listhening wid both ears wide open 
toight. Loike myself, you have sittled your account at your 
own convaniance. But suppose your proposed quane of 
society declines the honor. 


Martin. She dare not. My will is law in her case. I 
never go back on my word. 

Major. Faith, it's betther than your I O U's, thin. But 
you wouldn't force her, me by. 

Martin. She shall marry Poole if I have to drag her to 
the altar. 

Major. By the blissed St. Pathrick, no ! You may thry 
moral swasion: I'm only opposed to that on timperance prin- 
ciples. But she's a swate girl, and she shall marry whom 
she loikes. If it's not Poole, your fat's in the foire, and I'm 
jist the by to kick over the stew-pan. 

Martin. Fitz, you're drunk. 

Major. At tin o'clock in the mornin'.^ Thin it's a dhry 
drunk, and don't count. 

Poole. By what right do you interfere, you miserable 

Major. Will, niver you moind, Misther Poole. I've a 
shtrong wakene?;s for fair play — 

Martin. Oh ! Fitz is all right, he won't interfere. There 
shall be no violence with Marion. 

Major. Kape to that, and I'm dumb. 

Poole. Then, I may speak to Miss Moore with your 
permission ? 

Martin. Certainly. I will speak to her now. {Exit l.) 

Major {comes down, and sifs l. of table). Now, me by, a 
word wid you. You jist now complimented me with the title 
of miserable sot. I moight have shtood the last word, for I 
know my own wakeness in the matther of shtrong drink, 
but I'm blissed if I'll be made miserable by the loikes of 

Poole. Do you want to quarrel with me ? 

Major. Sure, Fm a man of pace at any price. 

Poole. Bah ! you've picked up something that 3'ou want 
to sell. 

Major. I picked meself op from onder the table this 
mornin', and wid meself that {throws a dice on table). 

Poole. Ah ! one I dropped. {About to take it:) 

Major {clapping his hand on it). Don't touch it, me by: 
it's loaded. 

Poole {starting back, and looking at Major). Loaded? 
How did you find that out ? 

Major. I've tried it, me by; and it's sixes ivery toime. 


Moighty convenient for a chate, a shwindler, and a black- 
guard loike Herbert Poole. 

Poole {star-ting up). Major Fitzpatrick ! 

Major. Kape your. sate: the truth shouldn't froighten 
you. By the by, those I O U's of mine, Fd loike to look at 

Poole. For what purpose ? 

Major. Curiosit)', me by. 

Poole {hands papers). Here they are. 

Major. If it's all the same to you, me by, I'll kape them 
for the convaniance of knowin' how much I owe you, to 
refrish me memory occasionally. Afther that — 

Poole. Well ? 

Major. I'll burn them, me by. 

Poole. You will return that dice ? 

Major {7'ises). I'll think about it, me by. {Going r.) 
Faith, I'll not. {Aside.) Thrust an Irishman for luck ! It's 
not his at all at all, and divil a six can I throw wid it. But 
niver moind, he's not the fust blackguard who's been shot 
wid an unloaded gun. {Exit r.) 

Poole. What unlucky chance made me drop that dice.'* 
The Irishman has me in his clutches, and my magic throw 
is powerless. 

{Enter Martin, l.) 

Martin. She's not in her room. (Marion ^?/^ Jerome 
appear on piazza.) Ah, there she is! Marion/ come here. 

Marion. You'll excuse me, Mr. Jerome? 

Jerome. Certainly. {Lifts his hat, and exit Y^.) 

Marion {comes dowii). Well, father.? 

Martin. My friend Mr. Poole is waiting to speak with 
you. {Exit L.) 

Marion (l.). To speak with me ? Mr. Poole, I am all 

Poole (r.). Miss Moore, you must have seen that I 
have long admired you. When I tell you that admiration 
has deepened into love, you will not be surprised that I take 
the first opportunity, after obtaining your father's consent, to 
ask you to be my wife. 

Marion. I am not surprised, Mr. Poole : 'tis what I have 
been expecting. I decline the honor. 

Poole. Miss Moore, have you considered my position in 
society ? As my wife you would move in the first circles. 
My family — 


Marion. Is of the best. I understand that. But I am 
not seeking position : you offer yourself, and that is an ob- 
jection. You are a bold, dissipated man ; no woman could be 
happy as your wife, did she love you ; and as your attentions 
have not affected me in that way, you must excuse me. 

Poole. I confess I am a little wild, but marriage will re- 
form all that: will you not aid the good work? 

Marion. I will aid any good work that promises suc- 
cess, but the experiment of marrying a man to reform him 
has seldom had that happy result. 

Poole. Your father looks upon my proposal kindly: I 
fear you will greatly disappoint him if you persist in your 

Marion. Perhaps my father's wealth has influenced your 

Poole. So little, that when I tell you he is not only poor, 
but deeply in debt, you will understand that I have no mer- 
cenary motives. 

Marion. Poor! And in debt? To you perhaps ? 

Poole. Precisely. 

Marion. Debts of the gaming-table. I see it all. This 
marriage is to settle his indebtedness to you. Once more I 

Poole. Take a little time to consider it, Miss Moore. I 
knew you would be hard to win. I did not expect you to 
fall into my arms at the first proposal, and your opposition 
only increases my desire to make you my wife. I shall still 
hope. I am young, of good birth, passably good-looking, 
and have fine prospects. I foresee that you and your father 
will find hard lines in the future. I shall patiently await my 
time. I admire you, love you, would be a devoted husband. 
Think of this, and when you need me command me. Good- 
morning. {Exit r.) 

Marion. My father ruined ! can he speak the truth ? 
{Crosses to R.) 

{Enter Martin, l.) 

Martin. Well, girl, is it all settled ? 

Marion. It is : I have refused him. 

Martin. Refused him? Herbert Poole! Then you 
have ruined me. 

Marion. I do not love him. 

Martin. Romantic twaddle I 


Marion. I cannot respect him. 

Martin. Stuff and nonsense ! Feather your nest first; 
and all the respect, the billing and cooing, will come after 

Marion. I will not, can not, marry that man. 

Martin {fiercely). Will not ! You shall. Do you sup- 
pose I have kept you on my hands all these years, made a 
lady of you, surrounded you with luxury and comfort, to be 
defied by you at the very moment I need your help.? 

Marion. My help.? 

Martin {tenderly). O Marion, don't disappoint me now ! 
I have tried to be a good father to you : help me now, for we 
are beggars. Every thing — gold, houses, lands — has slipped 
through my fingers. With this marriage, all may be re- 
gained : without, the future is a life of poverty and privation. 

Marion. I will help you. I will work, slave, for your 
comfort. I will welcome the poverty if it bring us peace, if 
it takes us out of this wild, wicked life of folly that is full of 
terror ; any thing but marry that man. 

Martin {fiercely). Curse your peace and poverty ! Do 
you think I'll grovel among the beggars, when a word from 
you can lift us above all fear for the future? You shall 
marry that man. Balk me in this {seizes her wrist)., and I'll 
strangle you ! 

Marion. Father, you are hurting me. 
{Enter Major, r.) 

Major. Martin, me by, will you ate ? (Marion crosses to 
louns^e, on which she sinks., burying her face in the pillow) 
Beyant there's as foine a bafeshteak as iver roamed the 
broad peraries of the Wist, havin' a quiet smoke on the 
table wid a dish of rael maley petates, Irish to the back- 
bone, jist rowlin' back their nightcaps with a good-mornin' 
for ye's, and their eyes lookin' for all the world loike a purty 
girl waitin' for a mash. 

Martin. Bother eating ! 

Major. Wid all me heart, me by ; but as it's a nissisary 
avil betwane drinks, we must humor it. 

Martin. Has the morning mail arrived? 

Major. There's a hape of letthers beside your plate, so 
you can despatch two males to onct. 

Martin. Come on, then. {Stoops over Marion.) Re- 
member, I will be obeyed. {Crosses to R.) Come, Fitz. 
{Exit r.) 


Major {looking at Marion). Just in toime, Major, me by. 
I belave he was about to make a male of the choild. {Crosses 
to lounge.) You seem to be troubled, me darlin'. Am I to 
congratulate Misther Poole — 

Marion {starli?ig up). Major Fitzpatrick ! do you wish to 
insult me.'* Are you concerned in this vile plot to make me 
share the fortunes of a man whom I detest .'' Are you abet- 
ting this cruel wrong.'' 

Major. It's little consarn I have for the ways of mathri- 
mony onyhow; and the plot, I'm thinkin', is confined to the 
two of thim, the ould man and the by; and if I'm a-bettin', it 
is, that the famale parthy in the shuit can whip the both of 
thim if she have a moind. 

Marion. O Major! you will aid me, you will be my 

Major. To be sure I will. If you could foind a way to 
look kindly on this offer, it would be moighty convanient for 
the ould man, for he's put to his trumps wici niver a one in 
his hand, and this marriage would give us all a lift. He's 
disperate — 

Marion. And so am I. He has no right to make me 
marry this man. He shall kill me first, as he has threatened. 

MAjor. Oh, he has threatened, has he.? {Aside.) Martin, 
me by, you've broken your parole, your jig's op. {Aloud.) 
My darlin', how old moight you bay? 

Marion. Twenty-three. 

Major {looking round). Have you any recollection of a 
place called {looking round) " The Flowing Bowl " ? 

Marion. No: my first recollection is of being in a chil- 
dren's hospital. 

Major. Yis, for a faver maybe. 

Marion. I think an accident had happened to me. 
From there I was taken to the country, until I was old 
enough to go to school, where I was for five years. I've 
been with father ever since. 

Major aside). Martin, me by, you're a gay desaver. The 
choild died, did she? {Aloud) Your father has no roight 
to force you in this matther; and, if he had, he's not you- 

Marion. Not my father — 

Major. Aisy, honey ! 'tis a sacret he has blabbed in his 
cups : as yet I have only his word for it. I'll watch ; an' whin 


the wine's in and the wit is out, he may shpring a lake wid 
his mouth, an' if he does I'l make a tunnel of me ear and 
catch the drippin's. 

Martin {oictside r.). Fitz, Fitz, are you coming? 
Major. I'm wid ye, me by.— Kape a good heart, me girl. 
I've a moind that young lawyer Jerome (don't blush) moight 
loike to take a hand in this affair. 

Marion {placing he?' hand on the Major's ann). Major! 
Major {covering her hand with his own). That's jist 
the hand he'd loike to hold, I'm thinkin' : it's a moighty 
pretty hand, and would pay the costs of court. 
Martin {outside r.). Fitz, Fitz! 

Major. Immagiately, me by (^^^'^.y r.). — Thrust to luck, 
me darlin',.and Major Fitzpatrick. Me breakfast's gettin' 
cowld, but the owld man will make it hot for me {Exit r.) 
Marion. Not my father .? Impossible! He would not 
force me to marry if he had not the power to compel obedi- 
ence, and yet no father who loved his child would consent 
to such an alliance. But if not his child, who am I .? Why 
this mystery.? (Jerome and Jessie appear, promenadijig 
the piazza.) Perhaps I am a foundling left at his door, per- 
haps the child of shame. Perhaps — the Major must have 
dreamed it after one of his midnight carousals. {Turns up 
stage, sees Jerome, who bows. Marion tttrns back.) Mr. 
Jerome, had he been my father's choice, how gladly would I 
have consented I (Jerome bows to Jessie, and comes down.) 
Jerome. Miss Moore, Marion — may I not call you by 
that name.? You have been kind enough to congratulate 
me on my future prospects so earnestly, that in you I feel I 
have a true friend. 

Marion. You have indeed. {Gives her hand.) 
Jerome {grasping it %var?nly). Marion, I love you ; heart 
and soul acknowledge you as mistress : may I not hope that 
in that future so bright with promise I shall find vou sharino- 
my joys and sorrows as my wife .? " ^ 

Marion. Mr. Jerome, I —ihesitates). 
_ Jerome. I have been hasty, I have startled you. I have 
given you no reason to suspect that I loved you; but it 
would have been ungenerous in me to seek your hand while 
struggling with poverty. Now all this is changed, and I can 
honestly claim the one I have loved from the moment we 
first met. 


(Herbert Poole appea7's c.) 

Marion. O Mr. Jerome ! Clifton — 

Jerome {kissing her hand). I read my ansv/er in your 
eyes. May I speak to your father.? 

Marion {break i7tg away). My father! {Goes r.) No, 
no: he will never consent. What am I about to do.? Bur- 
den the life of the man I truly love, with a wife whose father 
is not only a bankrupt, but a gambler and a drunkard ; who 
knows not if she has a right to associate with honest peo- 
ple } No, no ! I love him too well for that. 

Jerome. Marion? 

Mariox. It will break my heart, but I will do it: better 
to sacrifice myself than him. {'I'lirns, speaks quickly.) Mr. 
Jerome, wiiat you ask is impossible. My father has already 
selected a husband for me. I must obey. 

Jerome. A husband for you ! Who ? 

Poole {co?nes down R.). Herbert Poole, at your service. 
(7(7 Marion.) You consent? {Holds out Jiis hand) 

Marion {after a struggle, places her ha/id in- his). Y 


Poole. Ah ! Let me salute my future bride. {About to 
kiss her.) 

Marion {dashes away his hand). No, no, never. Oh, I 
shall go mad, mad ! {Runs off l.) 

Poole {goes to door l., and looks off; Jerome leans 
against table, with arms folded, watching him). A little 
coy. Shall I follow her ? No, I'll give her time to collect 
herself. {Coynes down, and faces Jerome.) My dear fellow, 
you have my sympathy. You came too late. I have carried 
off the prize. 

Jerome. It strikes me the prize took herself off, my 
dear fellow. 

Poole. Ah ! something of a joker, I see. 

Jerome. Possibly. The joker is the best card in the 
pack, as you should know. 

Poole. Of course you will now desist from your amor- 
ous pursuit of Miss Moore. 

Jerome. Certainly not: why should I? 

Poole. Because she has accepted me. You heard her 
answer to my suit? 

Jerome. Yes ; and I read her answer to mine in the light 
of her eyes, the true index of a woman's heart. 

Poole. But I have the promise of her hand. 


Jerome. I shall have the hand without the promise, some 

Poole {aiigrily). You are a cool fellow ! Do you know 
who I am ? 

Jerome. By report, yes. The son of Archibald Poole, 
the millionnaire, an honest man who toiled and slaved to 
acquire a fortune that will be recklessly squandered by a 
spendthrift son. 

Poole. And who are you ? 

Jerome. The son of a poor farmer who worked early 
and late, and impoverished himself, that his boy might be 
fitted by education to make his way in the world, and com- 
fort his old age, as he will. 

Poole. And do you imagine that you can beat me out 
of old Moore's daughter, when I have her promise, and the 
old man is in my power? 

Jerome {aside). At last I have the clew. {Aloud) I 
haven't the least doubt of it. 

Poole. Why, you're a crank, fellow. 

Jerome. No; but I'm one of the fellows that turn the 
crank that winds up the career of such a scoundrel as you 
are — 

Poole. By — 

Jerome. Who carries a pack of marked cards in his 
breast-pocket — 

Poole. You lie — 

Jerome. Loaded dice in a secret place — 

Poole. You infernal — [Puts his hand back to his hip) 

Jerome {quickly seiziiig his arm, raises it, and sjtatches 
pistol from his hip-pocket^. And carries a pistol in his hip- 
pocket. {Falls back against table) 

Poole {approaching him). Curse you ! Pll kill you. 

Jerome {coolly raising pistol). Easy, my dear fellow. I 
hope for your sake it's not loaded, but Pm afraid it is. 

Poole. Curse you for a [meddling fool ! {Goes tip c, 
turns) You'll find that in this game I hold the winning 

Jerome. Not while I have the little joker {tapping pistol). 

Poole {at c. door). I marry Marion Moore, remember 
that. {Exit) 

Jerome. Not if I know a true woman's heart. There's 
evidently a nice little plot here, that the firm of Perkins & 


Jerome are in duty bound to unravel. {Lays pistol on table) 
Marion marry that man.? Bless her dear little heart! her 
woman's wit would find a way to balk him, even at the altar; 
if not, mine shall. (Jessie appears c.) 

Jessie. O Mr. Jerome, quick, quick ! Richard Bell will 
be murdered. 

Jp:rome. Murdered ! {Goes up) 

Jessie. A ruffian is beating him with his own oars. 

Jerome. 'Tis my drunken Californian. — Hallo there! 
hallo ! {Rims off c, followed by Jessie. Enter, r., Mar- 
tin and Major Fitzpatrick.) 

Martin. Understand once for all, I will have no inter- 
ference in this business. She is my daughter; and if you 
dare bring up that business of twenty years ago, you will 
be the sufferer, not I. 

Major. Will, I'd loike to know what ye's dhrivin' at, 
Martin, me by. 

Martin. There was a sequel to the quarrel, which I 
kept from you. 

Major. Indade, thin, we'll have the saquel to onct. If 
I'm to be a sufferer, I'd loike to know the nature of me 

Martin. When the stranger left the saloon, he was 
followed by yo7i. 

Major. I don't remimber that. 

Martin. You were too drunk to remember any thing. 
But you did follow him: you were seen following on the 
wharves. He never returned ; but you did, with blood upon 
your clothes. Fitz, you murdered that man for his money, 
and threw his body into the dock. 

Major. I murther! faith, you're jokin'. I wouldn't kill 
a fla for his money. 

Martin. Oh ! you were drunk, and didn't know what you 
were about. It would go hard with you if the matter were 
sifted. So be careful, and don't meddle in my affairs. 

Major. I'm a murderer, am I ? I don't fale it a bit. I 
don't have bad dhrames, and ghosts awakin' me op wid their 
howlin'. Faith, it's not right: if I am a murtherer, why 
shouldn't I have the priviliges? I'm thinkin' I'm a fraud. 
All right, Martin, me by: I'll be a murtherer to suit your 
convaniance, and you shall let Marion marry whom she 
loikes to suit mine. So put that in your poipe, and give it a 


Martin. Who is her father, if not I ? 

]'EKOUK {outside). Richard Bell, you are safe; lean on 
me; this way, this way. {Enters c, supportittg Richard 
Bell, who has a streak of blood on his forehead to show 
he has been struck.) 

Jerome. Your pardon, Mr. Moore; but this poor fellow 
has been wounded, and this is the nearest place. 

Richard {wildly). No, no! I say I'm not the man. Let 
me go, let me go ! 

Jerome. It's all right, Richard. Sit down. {Places him 
in chair r. of table.) 

Martin (l.). Who is he ? 

Jerome. A stranger to me until I rescued him from the 
fury of a rum-crazed fellow who came here with me. Miss 
Morris called him Richard Bell. He'll be all right soon: he 
is dazed by the blow he received. I must ask you to look 
after him, while I secure his assailant, {(iocs up and off Q.) 

Richard {lyini^ back in the chair with his eyes closed). 
Keep off, keep off ! I know you not. We have never met. 
I'm a poor boatman : what do I know about gold or Califor- 
nia ? Let go my throat ! Help, help ! 

Major (r.). Bedad, it's chokin' he is, wid thirst. {Takes 
flask from his pocket, and places it to Richard's mouth). 
Here's a reviver, me by. 

Richard {dashes it to the floor., and rises). Accursed 
stuff, away! It has ruined my hfe. I had a wife whose 
happiness it blasted, whose death it wrought; a child, O my 
child ! It made me murder my child. Twenty years have 
not blotted out that fearful night. {Sinks back into chair 
with his eyes closed). 

Martin. Twenty years ago ! {Looks at him closely) 
Fitz, it is the stranger. 

Major. Whom I murthered, me by. Faith, I towld ye 
I was a poor hand at sthickin'. 

Martin {aside). Should he be recognized, I am ruined. 

Richard {rouses). No, no ! take that rope from my neck. 
I knew not what I did. {Starts to his feet.) Two devils in 
human shape tempted me, plied me with liquor. {Backs up 
stage) I am innocent: let the guilty suffer. Two devils 
{Glares at Major.) Ah ! there's one ! {Recognizes Mar- 
tin.) And there's the other ! 

{Enter Marion, l.) 


Marion. Father ! 

Richard. Who called father? {Sees Marion.) My 
wife ! {Staggers back, and falls with his a7'in over piazza- 

Martin. He must not live to speak again. {Goes np.) 
I'll strangle him where he lies. 

Major {intercepting him). Martin, you are mad ! 

Martin {struggling with him). Hands off, I say ! 

Marion. Father, what would you do? 

Major. Murther: I see it in his oye. 

Martin {throws Major to r. He, near table, sees pistol; 
snatches it). Ah ! short work with burglars. {Goes up to 
Richard.) You speak no more. {Aims pistol; Marion 
shrieks, and sinks on lounge; Jerome enters c, seizes Mar- 
tin's ar?n; the pistol explodes; Jerome then quickly 
snatches it.) 

Marion {rushing up and falling on Jerome's neck). 
Clifton, CHfton ! 

Poole {enters r.). Scoundrel, give me — 

Jerome {with l. arm roujid Marion, presents handle of 
pistol to Poole). Pistol ? Certainly. You see it was 



Act II. — Evening of the same day. Scene as before, with 

addition of moonlight frojn R. across piazza, and in at the 


(Enter Jessie r.) 

Jessie. Ha, ha, ha ! such a guy ! My Charlie has donned 
the apron, and is busily engaged — making blunders. Poor 
fellow ! " I saw him but a moment, but methinks I see him 
now," hurrying across the room with a tureen of chowder; 
his foot slipped, and he sat down ; the tureen flew up, and he 
had a free lunch. I took it all in, and so did he, I think, for 
he looked as though he was strangling. Poor Charlie ! I 
must have him in (rings bell). He shall serve refreshments 
for me (sits L. of table), and take a lesson from Uncle Pete. 
(Enter Pete, r.) 

Pete. Ring, miss ? 

Jessie. Send that new waiter to take my order for re- 

Pete. What ? dat ar' one that come to-day ? 

Jessie. Yes. 

Pete. Why, why, Miss Jessie, dat ar' Mr. Wilkins, your 
young man. 

Jessie. I know. 

Pete. Why, he, — he's wus' dan all de res': he's broke 
more crockery dis arternoon dan he can pay for in free 
months ef it's all stopped out er his wages. 

Jessie. And what are his wages .f* 

Pete. Nuffin de fust year, 'cept 'sperience an' what he 
picks up, an' dat's mosely crockery in small bits. 

Jessie. Well, send him in. 

Pete. Inhere? No, dat won't do : I'se de bery partic'- 
lar major-domo ob dis year section, because Massa Moore 
want de bes'. 

Jessie. Yes; and because you are "de bes'," I want him 
to take a lesson from you. Uncle Pete, see that he attends 


to my wants proper]}^: I want him to excel, to rise in de 

Pete. Rise.'' he's risin' mos' de time from de flo'. 

Jessie. Call him, please. 

Pete {looking off r.). Dar he goes now ! {Snaps his fin- 
gers and beckons^ a la head waiter) Here, kidminster, kid- 
minster — 

Jessie. Why do you call him that name ? 

Pete. Uat's what de stujents call him. 'Spec' it's 'cause 
he's spread onto de flo' mosely. 

{Enter Charlie, r., in a white ap?'on, napkin 07i his 

Charlie. Were you snapping your bones at me, old 
salmagundi ? 

Pete. Old sally me which ? {Po7npoiisly) I'se de cus- 
tardin dese year 'partments. I'se major-domo. Don't fool 
yourself wid' respect to your s'perior. {Stints down to l.) 
Take de lady's order. Hump yourself, hump yourself. 

Jessie. This way, kidminster. 

Charlie. That infernal name again ! {Shakes his fist at 
Pete.) Look here, old blackberry jam, if you disclose the 
secrets of the pantry — 

Pete. Demean yerself, de lady called. 

Charlie. O Jessie ! this is ridiculous. 

Pete. Dat's so, you igronamus. Is dat the way you take 
a lady's order ? 

Charlie {chasing Pete into l. corner). Open that yawn- 
ing chasm of yours again, and I'll close it forever. 

Vete. Now, now, don't fool, don't fool ! 'Twas de lady's 
'tickler order, dat de cerimonious distance betwixt de lady 
dat gibs de order and de indervidual what obeys be strict- 
ually obserbed. — Am dat de troof, A'iss Jessie? 

Jessie. The major-domo is correct, kidminster : you are 
about to receive your first instructions in the art of waiting 
on a lady. 

Charlie. Waiting on an artful lady is more in my line. 

Jessie. Silence, sir, — from an adept in the profesh. 

Pete. Dat's me, I'se in debt. 

Charlie. Well, fire away, old corkscrew. 

Jessie. You are to imitate him in every particular. 

Charlie. All right, my lady. {Goi?ig "&.) 

Jessie. Where are you going .? 


Charlie. To black up, of course. " Imitate him in 
every particular," you said. 

Jessie. No matter about that: I'm color-blind. 

Pete {pompously). Now, den, in de fust place, fustly, 
clar de table. 

Charlie {iniiiatijig). Clar de table. {Sweeps books off 
table with his ha?id on to Pete's /^^/.) 

Pete {seizing one foot, and hopping across stage on the 
other). Oh, golly! smash, smash, smash ! wha' — wha' d'ye 
call dat ? 

Charlie {picking up book, and reading title on back). 
"Bunyan's Works." 

Pete. Jes' work all de bunions out dat ar foot. B-cmobe 
de clof. 

Charlie. Dar she be. {Snatches cloth, and throws it 
over Pete's head.) 

Pete. Dat's 'nuf, dat's 'nuf. 

Charlie. De table am cleared. What next. Major 
Dummy 'i 

Pete. Take de lady's order, an' clar yerself. 

Charlie {rnbbitig his hands, and bowing extravagantly). 
Now, madam, wha't is it.? fish, flesh, or fowl, baked, fried 
or broiled : order what you like, it will be sure to be what we 
are just out of. 

Jessie. Something light, thank you. Pate de foie gras, 
with chow-chow, tutti fruiti with madeira jelly, charlotte- 
russe, Italian cream, and — and — 

Charlie. A physician ? 

Jessie. Sir? 

Charlie. Well, we'll have him a little later by way of 
dessert, but you'll want him all the same. 

Pete. Can you remember the lady's order, sar ? 

Charlie. Yas sar. Patti de fruitti, chow-chow madeira, 
jelly russe, charlotte froi gras, and — and — Have it on de 
table fus' class, in a jiff. {Exit R.) 

Jessie. Ha, ha, ha ! he'll be sure to make a mess of it. 

Pete {crosses to l. while speaking). 'Spec' he will. Miss 
Jessie. Shouldn't wonder if he fetched it all in a tureen ; have 
chow-chow and chowder den. Why, dem ar stujent fellers, 
jes' look at it, look at it ! Dar edication in dem ar observa- 
tories begins wid de free R's, readin', 'ritin', an' 'rithmetic ; 
an' dey think dar edication as waiters begins wid de free S's, 


fur its nuffin' but smash, smash, smash, and dar dey sticks. 
Only been hyar free days, an' dat ar pore ole landlord jes' 
telumgraf for a crate ob crockery : ef dey stop free days 
more, dey'll broke de whole concern, and dribe the hotel into 
insolbency an' de landlord into de howling wilderness. 
Dat's jes' what dey'll do. 

Jessie. Ha, ha, ha ! but you shall teach our stujent to 
do better. Here he comes. 
{E)iter R., Charlie, with dishes on waiter in a tablecloth; 

stumbles at door, ajid tiearly falls upon table, where he 

deposits his burden.) 

Charlie {tjiniing cloth down round the table, and disclos- 
ing food and dishes). Any thing else, my lady.'' 

Pete (l. of table). Let me see : hm, hm ! berry nice, 
berry nice for you. Now place a chair fur de lady. 

Charlie {places chair behiiid table). Jes' so, major. 

Jessie {sitting). Thank you : here is every thing a de- 
vouring passion could wish. (Charlie starts for door r.) 

Pete {snaps fingers). ^ Hyar! whar you gwine.? 

Charlie. The lady says she has every thing — 

Pete. Take yer place behind de lady's cheer: put yer 
left hand on yer hip, yer right on de back ob de cheer, 
(Charlie obeys), and look hopeful. 

Charlie. Hopeful of what ? 

Pete. Dat you'll git a quarter. 

Jessie {looks up at Charlie). A little pepper, please. 

Charlie {comes to r. of table, hands pepper). Here you 

Jessie. Shake it, please. 

Charlie. Certainly. {Holds up the pepper-box withotit 
ifwerting it, and shakes it violently >j 

Pete. Hyar ! stop dat ! {Snatches the box) On to de 
patti. Like dis {shakes it getitly on plate). See t 

Charlie. See? of course I do. {Sfiatches up another 
box, and shakes pepper on plate) 

Pete. Hyar, dat ar kyan, stop ! stop ! 

Charlie. Of course. Cayenne is healthy {shakes), cay- 
enne is good for all kinds of food {shakes violently over the 

Pete. You'll ruin de hole. Gib me dat! 

Charlie. Certainly. {Shakes pepper in his face) All 
you want. 'Twill make you smart, old man. 


Pete. Smart? (Sn^^es^s) Ah chow I 
Charlie. The chow-chow sliall have some {shakes). 
Jessie. Oh, stop! You'Jl choke — {sneeses) ah chee ! 
Charlie {sneezes). Ah choo! 

Pete. Don't you know better dan to — {sneezes) ah chow! 
Charlie. You began to — {sneezes) 2ih choo! 
Pete. Bress my — {sneezes) ah chow! 
Charlie. Hang that — Ah — ah — 
Jessie {sneezes). Ah chee ! 
Pete {sneezes). Ah chow ! 
Charlie {sneezes). Ah choo ! 

Jessie (r/><?j). Take away the — {sneezes) 2^ Q}cit^\ My 
eyes are — {sneezes) ah chee ! Ah chee! Ah chee! {Runs 

Charlie. I've made it hot — {sneezes) ah choo ! 

Pete. Hot.? {Sneezes) Ah chow! Take off dem — 
{sneezes) ah chow ! 

Charlie. Take them yourself. {Goes r.) I think, for a 
lively waiter, I'm not to be — {sneezes) ah choo! {Exit r.) 

Pete. If dis am de fust lesson — {sneezes) ah chow ! 
{takes things from table) den no more major-domo fur dis 
chile. {Sneezes) Ah chow ! Jes' starts de wool ebery time — 
{sneezes) ah chow! {At door^ sneezes) Ah chow! {Tumbles 
offv..., smash outside?) 

{Enter Martin, c.) 

Martin. That fellow Richard Bell troubles me. His 
sudden appearance here, his recognition of me, his agitation 
at the sight of Marion, will work mischief, should Poole sus- 
pect any thing wrong. Fortunately, he is too well pleased 
with his acceptance by Marion, to give a thought to aught 
else ; and a speedy marriage will suit him, and make me 
secure. {Enter Poole, r.) Ah ! how speeds your wooing .'' 

Poole. Not as I should like. True, I have her promise, 
but her cool treatment of her accepted suitor is something I 
did not bargain for. Egad ! one would imagine from her 
behavior that I was the rejected, and Jerome the accepted. 
She's all smiles for him, and calm, cold, statuesque beauty 
for me. 

Martin. Coquetry, my boy. Soon she will be all your 

Poole. The quicker the better. That fellow, in the face 
of her refusal, told me he would win her yet; and if Pa 


Moore doesn't take a hand in the game, he's likely to keep 
his word. 

Martin. What would you have me do ? 

Poole. Take her away from this place, — away from 

{Enter Major, r., staggering^ singing.) 

" Thrust to luck, thrust to luck, 

Stare fate in the face ; 
Your heart must be asey 
If it's in the right place." 

{Hie) That's thrue for ye's, me bys ; an' it's a loight heart 
makes a heavy head the nixt mornin' {hie\ as I've oftin towld 
you, Martin, me by. 

Martin. Major, you've been drinking. 

Major. Who towld ye {hie\ me by.'* Sure I wouldn't 
be afther disgracin' the rael owld stingo from St. Domingo, 
by jingo ! by betrayin' {hie) it. Sure, I've been praparing 
meself for what the powets call {hie) balmy slape, by the 
latist medical dishcovery that it's onwise to slape wid an 
impty shtomach {hic\ — by getting full, me bys. {\'awns.) 
Bedad ! the balm is working. {Staggers to lounge) 

Martin. Go to bed, old man : that's the place for you. 

MA]OYL{stretehiiig himself 071 lounge). Faith, how would 
I know the resate put me to slape, onliss I kipt awake to 
watch it? {Yazuns) Me por owld mother used to say 
{drowsily) Patsey, me by — {snores). 

Martin. Fitz, what will you take ? (Major snores) 
When that invitation won't rouse him, he's off sure ; no fear 
of his disturbing us. Poole, you are right : Marion must be 
removed from here at once. Fortunately, my sister has 
gone to our house in town : I will send her there. 

Poole. On what pretext ? 

Martin. Mrs. Morris must be taken ill, and Marion sent 
for. Is there a train up to-night? 

Poole. No : the last went an hour ago. 

Martin {aside). Bah ! that man might drop in at any 
moment. {Aloud) It's a fine moonlight night, the wind is 
right: you could take a boat, and sail up. 

Poole. The very thing I would like ! 

Martin. All right. You look up a boat at once. 
(Poole goes up, Martin to r.) In fifteen minutes I will 


receive a telegram from my sister requesting Marion to 
come at once. (Aside.) It's a clumsy piece of business; 
but it will give me time, and get Poole out of the way. 
{Exii R.) 

Poole {at c. door). He will trust his daughter in my 
charge. Ah, hopeful Jerome ! I shall score one point 
against you. {Exit c.) 

Major {Jmnpinj^ up). Bedad I with mischief brewin' it's 
toime I was convaliscin'. There's no train op the night, but 
Pm moightily misthaken if there's not one down. Where's 
the paper ? {Picks it tip f7'0}n^Jioo7' and looks over it.) Yis, 
all roight {about to drop paper; looks at it agaiji, reads). 
Phat's that ! the owld reward again } Foive hundred dollars 
reward — Nathan Roberts — Californian, with his — phat's 
that ? his daughter, ah, ha ! that's new. Perkins and Jerome. 
Jerome, that's — By the howly poker ! Twinty years ago ! 
Bedad ! Major, me by, there's a big reward winkin' at you, 
moind that. But foirst I must tilignif Mrs. — 
{Enter Poole, c.) 

Poole. What's this, Major .^ had your nap out.? 

Major {feigning drnnk). Poole, me by, I was jist afther 
{hie) looking for me nightcap. 

Poole. You'll get'it at the bar. Where can I find a 
boatman ? 

Major. At the helum, me by {hic\ poipin' his oye at the 
angry clouds, or eyin' his poipe at the want of tobacver 

Poole. Pshaw ! I want a boat and a boatman at once. 
Find one for me, and Pll stand a bottle. 

Ma]OV. {aside). I'm wastin' toime. {Aland) Lave it to 
me, me by, I'll foind it; if there's a boat afloat, I'll foind it if 
I have to go to the botthom of the say for it. {Exit R., 

" A boat, a boat, to cross the firry, 
For we are goin' to be mirry." 

Poole {goes tip). He has the happy faculty of blundering 
into luck. I'll trust him. 

Marion {outside). Ah, Mr. Jerome, your arguments are 
profound {enters c, acconipatiied by Jerome), but not con- 

Jerome. You will still listen to me ? 


Poole {aside). Again together! {Aloud.) May I have 
a word with you, Marion ? 

Marion {coldly). Not just now. I am engaged. 

Poole. To me, yes. 

Marion. Is it necessary to continually remind me of 
that unpleasant fact .? 

Poole. Since you continually forget it, )'es. 

Marion. Forget it? You need not fear that. I am 
pledged to you, and in due time shall become your wife. 
You will find me an obedient one ; but until that time I am 
my own mistress. 

Poole. As you will always be. {Bows.) Excuse me 
for interrupting you. {Goes tip ztt door.) Cool, and before 
him too ! {Exit c.) 

Jerome. Marion, have you thought what your life would 
be with that man .? 

Marion. Certainly, the common lot of those who slave 
under a curse. That man's ambition is pleasure. He will 
tire of me in a month, and then seek the society of others, 
boon companions in revelry. As time speeds, I shall find 
myself a burden to him. As he grows careless, I shall 
become anxious, fearful; by. day cower under his fierce 
humors ; by night lie awake far into the still morning with 
sharpened ear listening for the first faint echo of a stum- 
bling footfall, or awake from fitful slumber to see a demon 
standing over me with murder in his fierce and bloodshot 
eye. Oh, Heaven help me! I have seen it all. 

Jerome. Marion, you have conjured up visions too hide- 
ous to be realized. You will never marry that man. 

Marion. Oh ! but I will, and bravely too. 

Jerome. Because you are driven to it by a father's com- 
mand ? 

Marion. Children should obey — 

Jerome. You are not a child. As you just now said, 
you are your own mistress. Assert your independence, and 
marry the man you love. 

Marion. I shall obey my father. 

Jerome. Then, if your father should bid you renounce 
Poole, and marry me ? 

Marion. I should believe the age of miracles had 

Jerome. And welcome it? 


Marion. Do not try to entrap me into a confession I 
have no right to make. I have made my choice, wisely or 
unwisely: I must abide the consequences. 

Jerome. You have wisely given your heart to a man 
who would lay down his life to save you from the conse- 
quences of your unwise promise. That man is not content 
to be defrauded of his rights without a struggle, when a 
reckless rival seeks to make a woman captive through her 

Marion. Ah ! you suspect — 

Jerome. Your father is in the power of Herbert Poole. 
To save him you would sacrifice yourself. 

Marion. There are other reasons — 

Jerome. One other, yes. You fear, that, should you 
follow the dictates of your heart, fair prospects would be 
blighted by the disgrace which attaches to the transactions 
of the gambler and his victim, and so complete the sacrifice; 
forgetting, in your mistaken zeal for another's welfare, that 
infamy can only mar by contact, — that, in plucking the pre- 
cious jewel from its clinging mass of earth and dross, the 
explorer is enriching himself. 

Marion. But if I should tell you there is another 
reason — 

Jerome. Another ! Marion, should you tell me there 
were a thousand, I would assert my claim against them all. 
Lovers and lawyers are alike unreasonable in suits : only a 
favorable verdict will silence their appeals. As this happens 
to be my first case, and as not only my professional reputa- 
tion but my future happiness are, against greed and fraud, 
trembling in the scales of justice, 1 beg the indulgence of 
the court, — and the courted, — if I respectfully, but firmly, 
decline being non-suited. I shall interview your father, 
appeal to his sense of right, convince him that if he is your 
father — 

Marion. If, if! do you, too, doubt he is my father? 

Jerome. Marion, what is this ? 

Marion. The other reason. One who I believe is my 
friend has told me I am not Martin Moore's daughter. His 
statement is so strange I scarcely credit it, but yet — 

Jerome. You doubt, Marion ? I knew your woman's wit 
would find a way out of the snare. A doubt to a lawyer is 
like a block of marble to a sculptor : the skilful hand moulds 


it to any shape that fancy dictates. Out of your doubt I'll 
shape a wedding-ring. 

Marion. Impossible! you can have no help from me, 
and Major Fitzpatrick is not a man to be trusted. 

Jerome. Leave all to me, Marion. 

{E7iter Richard Bell, c.) 

Richard. I beg pardon — 

Marion. Come in, Mr. Bell. 

Richard. I wished to speak to Mr. Jerome, but not to 
interrupt — 

Marion. Do not go : Mr. Jerome is disengaged. Our 
conference is over. {Bows, and exit l.) 

Richard {comes down, looking after her). How like, how 
strangely like ! The same face, the same step, the very 
tones of her voice ! 

Jerome. Well, Richard ? 

Richard. The lady, sir, who is she? 

Jerome. The daughter of Martin Moore : you know 
him 1 

Richard. Martin Tvloore, no. I have heard his name 
as one of the boarders here, but never met him. 

Jerome. Strange, for he is the man whom this morning 
I stopped in the act of putting a bullet into your then 
already uncomfortable head. You must know him. 

Richard. Yes, yes : I remember. We quarrelled years 
ago, but why did he attempt to kill me.'' 

Jerome. Why did you quarrel with him ? 

Richard. Why do men make beasts of themselves? 
Why fire their brains with poison till reason is overthrown, 
and maddening desire to rend and kill asserts its sway ? 
Heaven help me, I was mad ! {Sinks into chair l. of table, 
and buries his face in his hands.) 

Jerome (r.). A drunken brawl. 

Richard. And you tell me that lady is his daughter? 

Jerome. His only daughter. 

Richard. Happy father ! So like, so like ! O my child, 
my little daughter! 

Jerome. Have you a daughter, Richard ? 

Richard. I had until tha't night. Had she lived, would 
have been the living image of that lady. 

Jerome {agitated). Like her, Marion? 

Richard. I met this man years ago, in his own saloon ; 


we drank together many, many times; in maudlin mood we 
swore eternal friendship, and the next moment sprang at 
each other's throats like the wild beasts we were. A med- 
dling fool separated us. I seized a heavy tumbler from the 
bar, and flung it at his head. 

Jerome. \Vell, well ! 

Richard. No more, no more ! I have blabbed too much 
already; but the sight of that lady awoke memories long 
slumbering, and your honest face invited confidence. Twice 
you have saved my life, and 1 thank you, — from my heart I 
thank you. {Rising.) That's what I came for. Now I will 


Jerome. One moment, Richard, I think I know the 
reason why Martin Moore attacked you this morning. The 
tumbler you threw struck him — 

Richard. No, no! would to heaven it had! It— it — 
Mr. Jerome, you force me to speak. You won't betray 
me ? 

Jerome {giving his hand). Richard, look upon me as 
your friend'. True friendship never betrays. You may 
trust me with your life. 

Richard, With life or nothing. " Friend," you said : I 
haven't one in the wide world, but I'll trust you, sir. I 
haven't tasted liquor since that night twenty years ago. 

Jerome. Twenty years ago ! 

Richard. But that night — 

Jerome. After you had flung the tumbler. 

Richard, My little daughter, who was curled up in an 
arm-chair asleep, awoke at the sound of strife. While my 
hand was raised, she, the little darling, sprang towards me,^ 
crying, " Papa, papa ! " The tumbler flew from my hand, 
I heard her wild scream, I saw my darling's blood deluging 
the floor. I saw her fall, and fled accursed forevermore. 
{Sinks into chair) 

Jerome. Well ? 

Richard. That's all. My life since then has been that 
of a boatman on this coast, 

Jerome. But what became of the child ? 

Richard. I dared not approach the city again. But I 
read of the death of a child in a hospital, from injuries, 
under circumstances that convinced me it was my daughter, 

Jerome. Then, you have no proofs ? 


Richard. An accusing conscience is proof enough. I 
am a murderer. 

Jerome. Conscience, avaunt ! That won't stand in law. 
We must \i2M& prima facie evidence that your child is dead. 

Richard. Can there be a doubt t 

Jerome. A doubt .? Yes, a perfect bonanza. 
{Enter Pete, r.) 

Pete. Massa Jerome, dat are crazy feller of yourn got de 
trimmins, an' jes jumped out of de attic winder, an' — an' — 
broke his neck short off. Dey want's you down dar, quick. 
{Exit R.) 

Jerome. Unlucky mishap ! Don't go, Richard, till I re- 
turn. {Exit R.) 

Richard. Must have proofs ? No, no ! Should proofs 
be sought, suspicion will be aroused, and my life endan- 
gered. My life ! Is it worth the saving? Alone in my little 
boat, night after night, I have been swept before the fury of 
the fiercest gales, and prayed that the boiling sea would 
open and give me rest. In vain ! the angry roar of the tem- 
pest was stilled, the black storm-clouds parted, and through 
the rifts star after star appeared. The seething waters sank 
to rest, and the far-off boom of the breakers fainter and 
fainter came. Peace to all but the lonely man who craved 
it most. Welcome the danger ; for life is torture, death the 
only hope of rest. 

{Enter Martin, r.) 

Martin. You here again ? 

Richard. I am waiting the return of Mr. Jerome, at his 

Martin. Jerome, the lawyer? What have you to do 
with him? 

Richard. I have been telling him a part of the story of 
my life, that part which you know so well. 

Martin. What have you told him ? 

Richard. All I knew, — of our quarrel twenty years ago, 
of that mad act which laid an innocent child bleeding at 
my feet, of my cowardly flight. You must supply the rest, 
— you who urged me to the act; you, tempter, who in the 
sight of Heaven are as guilty as I of that foul deed. Tell 
me, where is my daughter ? 

Martin. Your daughter ! Do you, her father, come to 
me for news of the child you murdered ? 


Richard. Ah ! she died, then — 

Martin. Nothing could save her. She died in my arms 
at the hospital, to which I conveyed her. Richard Bell, you 
must fly from this place at once : your life is in danger. I 
pity you. 

Richard. Indeed ! Is that why you attempted my life 
this morning? 

Martin. You committed a dastardly act, the remem- 
brance of which aroused my indignation, and I forgot myself. 
I would not harm you now ; but there are others, who, should 
they recognize you, would shoot you at sight. Go, go ! you 
are compromising me by your presence here. Were it 
known that I knew your secret, I should be obliged to an- 
swer to the law for concealing a murderer. 

Richard. I will go. I will compromise no honorable 
man. I'll go, but tell me first where rests the body of my 
little darling. 

Martin {coiifiised). Where rests — 

Richard. Yes : I should like to know where she lies, 
that sometime I might kneel beside the grave of my lost 
darling. Heaven knows I loved her, and she knows now 
that I never meant to harm her. I should like to plant a 
few flowers above her head, a few mountain daisies she was 
so fond of, and water them with my tears, even the tears of 
a murderer. Where did you say.? 

Martin. At Greenwood, in my lot, you will find a little 
grave, and on the headstone the name — 

Richard. " Bell," my pet name for her. Is it there? 

Martin. Yes, yes. You can easily find it. Now go: 
every moment is full of danger to you. 

Richard. I care not. 

Martin. And me? 

Richard. I Avill go. Bell, little Bell, we should have 
been so happy together! and now — Well we shall soon 
meet. {Staggers up C.) My darling — lost — little Bell! 

Martin. What have I done? Sent him to the grave of 
my own little girl ! He will read the name there. Strange 
chance that it should be that of his child! Am I in such a 
strait that I can use that sacred spot to serve my selfish 
ends? 'Tis sacrilege. I'll call him back, and disclose all. 
No, no ! I have gone too far, I will not falter now. {Exit R.) 


{Enter Charlie, c, dress as m Act I.; travelling-bag in 
his hand.) 

Charlie. Fired at last! After twelve hours' service in 
the tray and napkin brigade, I have been informed by mine 
host in the gentlest manner possible for a man whose heart 
seems broken, — with other things, — that my services were 
no longer required, and I must either buy him out or get 
out. In fact, he gave me particular Jessie; and I shied off 
to escape a torrent of reproaches, and a shower of blows, 
which the swift whirling of a long and heavy poker told me 
would hkely be the next proceeding in my direction. Ah ! 
here comes my tormentor: more "particular Jessie" in 

{Enter Jessie, l.) 

Jessie. Hallo, Charlie, I mean kidminster: where are 
you going ? 

Charlie. " My pretty maid," — I have been threatened 
with a sudden attack of an old complaint, which is generally 
accompanied by a disorganized vision, in which peculiar 
astronomic appearances are observable, feverish symptoms, 
remarkable discolorations about the eyes, and a swelling 
head. I have taken advice, and purpose "following it by 
"skipping by the light of the moon." 

Jessie. What! going to leave us? 

Charlie. Yes, I feel I must go : he said I must. 

Jessie. He? Who? 

Charlie. The doctor. 

Jessie. Nonsense ! you can be dosed here as well as at 

Charlie. I don't like the treatment: I'm a hoineo'^z.- 

Jessie. Have you thrown up your situation ? 

Charlie. I have. I hated to do it; for I was becoming 
very much attached to that dining-hall, and a waiter's life, — 
so happy I was learning to sing at my labors the old famil- 
iar airs, "Wait a little longer," "Waiting at the gate, love," 
and " Wait till the clouds roll by." 

" I love it, I love it, and who shall dare 
To chide me for loving to v^^ait in there ? " 

Jessie. Charlie, you have been discharged : that is why 
you are going off. 


Charlie. Discharged ! nonsense ! You should have 
seen that gray-haired landlord with a poker in his eye, — 
ah ! a tear in his eye, — entreating me to stay — 

Jessie. No longer. Oh, you gay deceiver ! Don't I 
know all your shortcomings, your downsittings and your up- 
risings.-^ Haven't the boys told me what a slippery fellow 
you are ? You can't deceive me : you've been fired — 

Charlie. In the furnace of adversity, and come out an 
imperfect brick. I know it, Jessie: I was not born "to 
labor and to wait." 

Jessie. Ha, ha, ha ! What fun for the boys ! 

Charlie. Hang the boys ! I'm going up to town. 

Jessie. No, you're not: you are going to take me out 
for a stroll on the beach. 

Charlie. Oh ! may I, Jessie.? 

Jessie. Yes, and we'll talk over your future prospects. 

Charlie. Our future, Jessie ; and you will name the 
happy day when I shall cease to be — 

Jessie. A waiter. Ha, ha, ha ! 

Charlie. Now, Jessie. 

Jessie. "There's a good time coming, wait a little 
longer," ha, ha, ha ! 

Charlie. More fun for the boys. {Exeunt c, arm in 

{Enter R., Martin.) 

Martin. Here's the telegram. If Poole does his part, 
we are safe. {Enter Marion, l.) Marion, here is a tele- 
gram from your aunt {gives telegram). 

Marion. My aunt'! {Reads) "Mrs. Morris seriously ill: 
send Marion at once. Dr. Jordan." I must go. Is there 
a train to-night, father? 

Martin. No ; but I have made arrangements to go by 
boat. Get ready at once. 

Marion. But Jessie, does she go too? 

Martin. She would only be in the way. Hasten your 
preparations, we have no time to lose. 

Marion. I will be ready in a moment. 

{Efiter Poole, c.) 
• Martin. Well, have you secured a boat? 

Poole. Yes, and a safe pilot. 

Martin. Marion, Mr. Poole will attend you. 

Poole. And see you safely to your destination. 


Marion. Mr. Poole ! I decline his services. I will not 
trust myself with him. You are my rightful guardian. If 
you see fit to attend me, well : if not, I go alone. 

Martin. Girl, what new freak is this } You have given 
him a right to protect you. 

Poole. And I claim that right. I will not permit you to 
go alone. 

Marion. And I will not permit you to attend me. I can 
be as resolute as you, sir. I am not yet yours to command. 

Martin. I command you to go. {Seizes her hand) 
This is no time for petty whims. Your aunt needs you: 
even now she may be at death's door. 

{Enter, c, Major Fitzpatrick, with Mrs. Morris on his 

Major. A mishtake, me by: she's comin' through the 

Martin. My sister ! 

Marion. Auntie ! 

Poole. Dished, by Jove ! 

Mrs. M. {cojuing down l. to Marion). Why, Marion, I 
expected to find you sick in bed ! 

Marion. And I was just going to find you very ill. 

Marion {aside). Aunt here! It was as I suspected, — a 

Mrs. M. Marion quite well ! O Major ! you telegraphed 
me somebody was dying. 

Major (r. c). Faith, it is myself that's dyin' for your 
swate society. Shure, that's no loie. 

Martin {k., fiercely). Confound your meddling ! You've 
completely upset my plans. Why did you send for my 
sister } 

Major. Shure, you wouldn't have me lave her out in the 
cowld, at death's door, whin there's a warm place inside. 

Poole (r.). Major Fitzpatrick, you're a trickster. What 
is your little game ? 

Major. Me little game, is it? {Takes dice fro7n pocket, 
and holds it 7ip.) Sixes, me by. 

{Enter Richard, c.) 

Richard. The boat is ready. 

Martin. That man again!' Poole, is this your safe 

Poole. The Major selected him. 


Major. The bist on the coast, me by! 

Martin {fiercely, to Major). Blunderer! 

Major. One of the misfortunes of ganius, me by. 

Martin {goes tip l.c, to Richard). You are not wanted 
{enter Jerome, r,), except it be by the officers of justice, 
Richard Bell. 

Major. Aisy, me by, you're at say. Richard's not him- 
self at all at all : he's Nathan Roberts. 

Jerome {aside). Ah, my missing man ! 

Richard. Run to earth at last I 

Martin. I have warned you once ; I have warned you 
twice; for the third and last time, if you are seen here 
again, I will denounce you. 

Richard. Do your worst. I am reckless. I defy you 1 

Martin. You shall answer to the law for a foul and 
bloody crime. 

Jerome {stepping up, afid grasping Richard's hand). 
He shall meet his accuser, and I will defend him. 

{Picture: Richard ^^/^Z Jerome clasping hands q,., Martin 
L. c. Major r. c, Poole r., Marion and Mrs. Morris 
L. ; all looking at Richard ^«^ Jerome.) 


Act III. Sce7ie same as in Act I. Jessie on lounge, read- 
ing a book. Charlie seated l. of table. 

Charlie {solus). What an unmitigated nuisance to him- 
self a fellow becomes when he's in love ! At the outset, he 
has inoculated his system with a disease to which fever and 
ague are no great shakes. If he indulges in rosy dreams, 
the horrid nightmare of uncertainty wakes him with a cold 
sweat. He trembles with delight at a smile, he shivers with 
fear at a frown. He is a chameleon, forever changing his 
hues ; red with jo}^ pale with fear, green with jealousy, and 
blue when left out in the cold. That is the sort of fellow I 
am : tossed to and fro like a rubber ball in the hands of that 
wilful beauty there, only too thankful if she does not end 
her game by giving me the grand bounce. By the express 
command of her high-and-mightiness, I was not to open my 
lips for thirty minutes. {Looks at watch.) Thank Heaven ! 
time's up. {Softly.) Jessie! {Pause.) Jessie! {Loud.) 
Miss Morris ! 

Jessie {starting). Good gracious ! How you startled me ! 

Charlie. Time's up. 

Jessie. Oh, I'm so sorry! 

Charlie. Sorry ! Pray, may I inquire what remarkable 
work is so entrancingly interesting that even the calls of 
affection are disregarded ? 

Jessie. Why, it's perfectly lovely, awfully utter, too all 
but — 

Charlie. Ah ! philosophical, Concord school, and all 

Jessie. No : 'tis a romance of the West, — " Carl the 
Cowboy." Oh, such a hero ! 

Charlie {aside). Great Scott ! she's unearthed another 
hero. I tremble. {Aloud.) Well, who's " Cowl the Car- 


Jessie. Carl the Cowboy, I said, sir ! A modern knight 
of the glorious West, the free-born child of the prairie, the 
fearless rider, the unerring marksman, the champion of 
the lasso, the rescuer of unprotected females, the — the — 

Charlie. For further particulars, see the " New- York 

Jessie. Oh, I just dote on that Carl ! He is the realiza- 
tion of my dreams of a perfect hero. If I could only look 
at such a man! O Charlie! there's a pattern for you: be- 
come like him, and I should adore you. 

Charlie. Now, Jessie, pause. Much as I hanker for 
your adoration, there's a hmit to human endurance; and 
mine stops just on the edge of the boundless prairie. I'm 
not going to set my foot on it: you are going too far. 

Jessie. Won't you, for my sake, become a cowboy, 
Charlie ? 

Charlie. Not even a calfboy. A pretty hero you ve 
dug up this time ! a red-shirted, long-booted, loud-sweanng, 
tobacco-chewing, half-horse, half-buffalo, cattle-driver. Bah ! 

Jessie. Don't you abuse my hero. I have set him on a 
pedestal in my heart of hearts. 

Charlie. Well, shut him up there: if he should break 
out, the house couldn't hold him. 

Jessie. And you won't go West to oblige me ? 

Charlie. To oblige neither you nor Horace Greeley. 

Jessie. As a test of affection, Charlie ? 

Charlie. Those peculiar phases of love's delirium have 
become monotonous. I am surfeited with narrow escapes 
and thrilling situations. Something in the pastoral Ime 
might tempt me, but not your friend, or rather fiend, the 

Jessie. Then, you decline my request? 

Charlie. With thanks. 

Jessie. Very well, sir! I know where to look for a man 
who will become the Lero I desire. 

Charlie. He has my warmest wishes for his success as 
a cowboy. 

Jessie. Either of your college boys would be glad ot the 

opportunity. , . , r r ..i 

Charlie. Try them. It's been nothmg but fun for the 
boys ; now let them try to please you, and 'twill be fun for 


Jessie, Oh, you cruel, heartless — Til never speak to 
you again, long as I live ! Never! {Stainps her foot^ and 
exit L.) 

Charlie. Never! never! Should she stick tc that, I 
shall lose her. For the first time I have dared to rebel, and 
I'm frightened. I'll call her back, humbly beg her pardon, 
and — and. — No, no ! That infernal cowboy stands in the 
way, and I can't swallow him. I'll give her up, and go back 
to town. {Turns tip stage.) 

{Enter Jerome, r.) 

Jerome.* Whither bound, Charlie ? 

Charlie. Home. The sea air does not agree with me. 

Jerome. But Jessie does ? 

Charlie. Jessie be — Look here, old fellow, it's all up. 
The pretty but pouty Miss' Jessie has found me a new 
field for missionary labor in the Far West: she wants me to 
become a cowboy. I kicked, and she stampeded. My dream 
of love is over. 

Jerome. Ah ! but you should humor her: if she desires 
it, be a cowboy. 

Charlie. Now^ you're at it. Suppose Miss Moore 
should request the same favor of you ? 

Jerome. I should comply at once, and take the first 
favoral3le opportunity to appear before her in the dress and 
with the manners of one of those paper heroes, and thus 
convince her that the boasted heroism of these prairie plod- 
ders is the product of imagination, not of reality. 

Charlie. I see : a masquerade. 

Jerome. An idea which you will do well to adopt. For- 
tunately I can assist you. I have in my trunk a complete 
outfit for this character, in which I once masqueraded, and 
which I thought might be of like use at the festivities here : 
it is at 3'our service. Go to my room ; equip yourself. I will 
talk with Jessie, and in due season introduce you as a friend 
from the West. You can manage the^^est. 

Charlie. I can try {giving hand). Clifton, you're a 
brick. I was just ready to crawl through a very small hole 
on my knees, but this lets me out whooping. Ah, ha! my 
lady, the free-born child of the prairie, the fearless rider, the 
unerring marksman, the champion of the lasso, is on the 
trail. , 

Jerome. Hush ! Here she is. 


Charlie. I'm off: it's my test now. {Exit r.) 
{Enter Jessie, l.) 

Jessie. Where's Charlie ? 

Jerome. He has just left me. He's to take the next 
train to town. 

Jessie. To town ? Without seeing me ? 

Jerome. Poor fellow! he seems almost broken-hearted 
I hope you have not been trifling with him. 

Jessie. Trifling with him ! Do you call it trifling to ask 
a man to be a hero "^ 

Jerome. Certainly not. 

Jessie. That's all I asked of him, — just to go West a 
little way, and be a little bit of a cowboyish hero. Cowboys 
are heroes, aren't they ? 

Jerome. There are many noble specimens of sturdy man- 
hood among the rough herdsmen of the West. By the way, 
we have one here, an old friend of mine, Carlos Corbus. 

Jessie. I should like to meet him. 

Jerome. You shall. He tells me he has come East to 
seek a wife ; and now that this little affair of yours and 
Charlie's is off — 

Jessie. But it isn't: Charlie is off, but I — and the little 
affair — Run and call him back, will you, please ? 
^ Jerome. Too late. He said he must run for the train. 
Wait until you have seen my friend. 

Jessie. I don't want to see your friend : I want my Char- 
lie. I've driven him off. {Takes up book from sofa.) Carl 
the cowboy {throws book tip stage\ I hate him. {Exit L.) 

Jerome. Ah, ha! our little maid is getting anxious. 
{Enter Major, c.) 

Major. Is it there ye are, me by ? Shure, it's in a hape 
of throuble I am intirely ; and if your lagal lore could 
accommodate me wid a bit of advice, I'd be obleeged to ye. 

Jerome. My legal lore is at your service, Major. State 
your trouble^^ 

Major. Shure, it's all along of the Widdy Morris. 

Jerome. Mrs. Morris? Is she troubling you? Have 
you offended her ? 

Major. There's no such good luck. She's the ofifinsive 
parthy. She's jist bubbling over wid love, and rattling it 
down on me hid loike a thousand of brick. 

Jerome. With love? Major, you must be mistaken. 


Major. Don't you belave it, me by. The widdy's no 
gosling. Whin she sets her oye an a man, she manes busi- 
ness, and wid the foire in that oye she jist frazes to him. 
Three toimes she swept the mathrimonial board wid her 
winning hand, an' I'm on deck for the fourth. 

Jerome. You must have given her encouragement. 

Major. Not the wink of an oye. 'Tis the misfortune of 
innocince to be misundersthood. It's the woires did it, me 
by. In the interests of pace and justice I tillegraphed her: 
"Come down, me darhng: somebody's dyin'." Whin she 
came I mit her at the dapo as a gintleman should, and 
escorted her to the house as a gintleman should. Since 
that toime she has me in her oye intirely. If I walk, she 
follows me; if I sit down, she snuggles op to me loike a 
chicken onder its mother's wing. The last of the Fitz- 
patricks is in danger, me by. 

Jerome. About that escort from the depot. Major : was 
any thing said .'' 

Major. Shure, I thried to make meself agraable. Did 
iver you hear of an Irishman escorting a lady, an' a foine 
handsome lady as she is, on a dark road in a moonhght 
night widout spakin', onless he was a dumb fool ? 

Jerome. Of course you gave her your arm to lean upon. 

Major. Ov coorse. You wouldn't lave her alone to 
lean by herself, would you ? I towld her I would support 
her, and wished upon me sowl it was me extrame happiness 
to so support her for the rist of her natural existence : sure, 
that's no lie. 

Jerome. There's where you stumbled. 

Major. Don't you belave it. She did, and I jist passed 
my arm around her waist. 

Jerome. Ah ! 

Major. The betther to kape from stumbling, of course. 

Jerome. Certainly. A pretty tight squeeze. Major? 

Major. Of course : you wouldn't have a man let a lady 

Jerome. Nor such a chance. Of course she thanked 
you for your attentions ? 

Major. She opened her lips to ; but I wouldn't have her 
fale onder obligations, and so I shtopped her. 

Jerome. In the usual way? 

Major. Of course. Who towld you? 


Jerome. Major, I congratulate you. Mrs. Morris is 
rich, comely, and agreeable. Moreover, without encourage- 
uient she has taken a fancy to you. My advice is, go in 
and win her : I will see you through. 

Major. Say me through ! Shure, I could go it blind, 
had I the moind : if you'll say me out, you'll be doing the 
friendly act. 

Jerome. Then, you do not return the widow's affection.^ 

Major. Oh, bother! that's jist what I'd loike. If I 
don't want it I must return it, d'ye moind ? 

Jerome. Then, you must treat her coolly. 

Major. Shure, I have, — to ice-crame and the loike ; but 
the more frazin' the food, the warmer she grows. 

Jerome. I can do nothing for you. You have given the 
lady sufficient reason to suppose that you love her. 

Major. Begorra, I've done me bist ! 

Jerome. Should you now retreat, a suit for breach of 
promise mjght be the outcome. 

Major. Brache of promise! Who tould you I axed her 
would she be moine ? 

Jerome. Then, you have popped the question ? 

Major. Niver a once. I aven axed an invitation to her 
nixt widding. A standin' invitation — at the roight of the 

Jerome. What did she say to that? 

Major. That I moight consider the matther settled: I 
could have the place. 

Jerome. You have run your neck into a matrimonial 
noose. I withdraw from the case. 

Major. And lave me hanging? How will I withdraw 
from the noose ? 

Jerome. After the wedding I will cut you down with the 
knife of divorce. 

Major. We'll have the divorce foirst : it moight disturb 
the festivities afther the ceremonies. 

Jerome. I believe, Major, you're half in love with the 

widow. , , , , . , 

Major. Shure, that's but half the truth you're belavin'. 
Jerome. Then, what is the bit of advice you came to me 


Major. Sure, it's about the wordin' of a telegrani I'll be 

afther sindin' ye whin I'm in town, consarnin' the foive hun- 


der-dollar reward : would I say as I said to the widdy, 
" Coome down, me darlin' " ? 

Jerome. Ha, ha, ha ! Major, you have the best of me. 
You shall have a check in five minutes. Shall I deduct my 
fee for advice from the amount.^ 

Major. Betther lave your fay where your advice lift me, 
— - hangin' to be cut down aflher the weddin'. 
(Mrs. Morris appears, c.) 

Mrs. M. Major, dear. 

Major. Yis, my dadin'. {To Jerome.) D'ye moind 
the oye of her ? 

Mrs. M. I'm going down to the shore. Are you very, 
very busv? 

Major. Busy, is it? Faith, your pleasure is the busi- 
ness of my loife. 

Mrs. M. Then come down, darling. 

Major. To be sure I will, me by — angel. 

Jerome. Mind your eye, Major. 'Tis rough travelling 
where you are going, and my advice is to go slow. 

Major. Moighty encouraging advice. You may put it 
in the bill. For shlow toime FU make the fastest record 
in the world, me by. — Coomin', my darlin'. 

Mrs. M. I hope I am not troubling 3'ou too much. 

Major {taking her arin). Faith, ye are, wid fear that you 
may shlip, so hug tight and go slow, me darlin'. {Exeunt c.) 

Jerome. With his usual blundering good luck, the Major 
is on the high road to wealth and happiness. 
{Enter, L., Jessie.) 

Jessie. Has Charlie returned, Mr. Jerome? 

Jerome. Haven't seen him, Jessie; but I have seen my 
friend from Texas, and promised him an introduction to you. 

Charlie {outside). No shenanigin', stranger. I eat my 
meat rare, and don't you forget it. 

Jerome. And here he is. 

{E?tter, R., Charlie as the cowboy.) 

Charlie. I say, pard, there's no swashability 'bout this 
ar place. Fve sassed five fellers, and not a galoot dared 
draw his shooter, an' Fm jest spilin' for a fight. 

Jerome. Never mind, Carlos, here's metal more attrac- 
tive. — Miss Morris, my friend Carlos Corbus of Texas. 

Carlos. That's me, pard, Texas born, Texas bred, and 
bound to die on Texas sile, with my boots on. 


Jessie. Any friend of Mr. Jerome — 

Charlie. Is yours truly. {Offers hand) Put it there. 
(Jessie, shrinki)ig^ places her hand in his.) Don't be skeered, 
gal: I'm as gentle as a calf here, but out thar rile me, an' 
I'm a tearer. That's me. 

Jerome. You'll find my friend very entertaining, Jessie. 
{Goes tip.) 

Jessie. Don't go, Mr. Jerome. 

Jerome. I must: I have business elsewhere, and I want 
you and Carlos to become better acquainted. {Exit c.) 

Jessie {aside). I'm afraid of him. {Siis on lounge.) . 

Charlie {sits on corner of table). Miss Morris, those 
eyes of yourn have got the bulge on me : there's fire enough 
in 'em to set a prairie blazin'. I feel like the treed coon 
when old Davy Crockett pinted his gun, — "Don't shoot, 
I'll come down." That's me. {Goes to lounge., and sits.) 

Jessie {Jumping up). But I don't want you to come 
down. {C?'osses to chair, r.) I — I don't know what you 

Charlie {taking position on table at corner nearest Jessie, 
as before). Mean business, that's me. I'm roaring Carlos 
of the prairie. I'm a dead shot, a boss horseman, and a 
sure slinger of the lasso. I've a big ranch, a big herd of 
cattle, and a big heart, all of which is yours truly. Now 
short, sweet, and to the pint : when will you marry me ? 

Jessie. Well, I never! 

Charlie. Oh, yes, you will. I'll give you a week to get 
ready. {Crosses) Come {offers hand), put it there. 

Jessie {rises, and crosses to l.). No, I never heard of 
such impudence. What do you take me for? 

Charlie. A bit of a spitfire who's going to take me as 
her tamer. {Crosses, and attempts to seize her hand.) 

Jessie {c^-osses to r.). Never, sir, never! I don't like 
your style of courtship. 

Charlie. Perhaps you prefer the Texas style ? 

Jessie {tre/nbling). The Ter-Ter-Ter-xas style? 

Charlie {goes up c, and arratiges his lasso). When a 
Texas cowboy wants a wife, he goes out and lassoes her. 

Jessie {aside). Good gracious ! I believe lie's going to do 

Charlie. After this fash. {Throws lasso) 

Jessie {ruiming across to l.). Oh, what will become of me ? 


Charlie. Missed! by the big buffalo! Missed! like 
any galoot. Ah, ha! spitfire, we'll try another fling. 

Jessie. Oh, please don't! I don't like it. 

Charlie. You must be mine. I've spotted you, and I'm 
bound to scoop you. {1 hroivs lasso.) 

Jessie {ruimiiig a?id croucJmicr down in front of table). 
Oh, help, help ! Charlie ! Uncle Pete ! 

Charlie. Missed again, by the great grizzly! Must I 
try the revolver .'* 

Jessie. Oh, won't somebody come ! 
{E7iter Pete, r.) 

Pete. Wha — wha — whar's de rumpus? Who call? 
who call ? 

Charlie. Ah, there's game. * {Throws lasso over Pete, 
pmiotiing his arms^ 

Pete. Here, you dar, stop your fool — {Kickifig ajid 

Charlie (goes up to door, c). You black scoundrel, how 
dare you interfere? {Twitches rope) 

Pete. You jes stop dat ar'. Can't get my bref. Don't 
fool, will you ? 

Charlie. You're in the clutches of roaring Carlos. 
{Twitches rope) 

Pete. Quit your roarin', and luf me go. 

Charlie. You go with me, roaring Carlos {jerks rope), 
the free-born child of the prairies {Jerks), the fearless rider 
(Jerks), the unerring shot {Jerks), the champion of the lasso 
{Jerks), — that's me. {Exit c, dragging Pete.) 

Pete. I's jes' a gone coon {exit shouting), luf me go ! 

Jessie {looks aroittid trembling, then rises). What an 
escape! A wild man of the West, and I his wife: catch 
me ! ril take good care to be out of the reach of him and 
his lasso. Texas courtship, indeed ! it may be romantic, but 
that sort of matrimonial noose is too binding for me. {Exit 


{Enter Marion, c.) 
Marion. Is there no escape from this torture? The 
man I hate pursues me, the man I love avoids me. It is my 
own foolish act : why should I complain ? I thought myself 
brave in boldly accepting a fate which my better reason told 
me was fraught with misery. I cannot fulfil my promise. 
The hope that Clifton Jerome might free me is vain. For 


three days, though still in the house, he has not approached 
me. I must believe the worst. Over-confident, he has 
fiiled to solve my doubt, and so avoids me. Well, better 
so: in some weak moment I might have flown to his shel- 
tering arms, and defied my own sense of right and justice. 
Now, though I may not be his wife, I can honor him above 
all others. The woman he loves must wed no other. I will 
fly from this place, hide myself in the city; work, slave, die 
of want, perhaps : 'tis my only hope of escape. 
{Enter Herbert Poole, c.) 

Poole. Marion, once more I entreat you, make me 
happy by naming the day when I may call you mine. 

Marion. Mr. Poole, once more I beg you to release me 
from my thoughtless promise. I do not love you. 

Poole. Not now, but you will when you find what a 
devoted husband I shall be. When you learn to know me 
better, you will believe in my sincere wish to make you the 
happiest woman in the wide world, and love me — 

Marion. I must decline. 

Poole. I have your promise, your father's consent: I 

Marion. Insist? 

Poole. Politely insist. This matter has gone too far. 
We are known to be engaged by your own free will. I have 
given no cause for a rupture, and as a matter of business 
have a legal claim to your hand. 

Marion. If you make it a matter of business, I shall 
have to refer you to my legal adviser. 

Poole. Clifton Jerome, I presume. 

Marion. Sir! 

Poole. He is evidently no longer a rivals since he has 
taken particular pains to avoid you of late. {Enter Jerome, 
c.) Clifton Jerome knows Martin Moore's daughter is not 
for him. 

Jerome. If you were speaking of me, you were quite 
right. {Bows to Marion, and conies doivn r.) 

Marion {aside). 'Twas as I feared. He no longer loves me. 

Poole. You resign all claim to — 

Jerome. Martin Moore's daughter? Most assuredly. 

Poole. Then, why are you here ? 

Jerome. As this lady's legal adviser, and, as such, priv- 
ileged to approach her at all times. 


Poole. This looks very much like a lawyer's trick. I 
don't like it. 

■ Jerome. My dear fellow, you are hard to suit. You 
complained when I professed love for Martin Moore's 
daughter; and now, when I tell you I withdraw in your 
favor, you don't like it. If there is any middle course I can 
pursue to your satisfaction, I shall be most happy to oblige 

Poole. And you are this lady's legal adviser ? 

Jerome. I am. If you doubt it, ask her father. 

Poole. Her father is my friend ; is willing, nay anxious, 
that I should marry his daughter. 

Jerome. And the daughter.? {Crosses to c.) 

Marion. Is neither anxious nor willing to marry this 

Jerome {aside). At last ! {Aloud) You have her an- 

Poole. Not to my satisfaction. 

Jerome. Of course not. The lady is evidently in ear- 
nest, and a graceful recognition of the sublime virtue of 
resignation on your part would be a manly act. 

Poole. I will not give her up. 

Jerome. No: you will still pursue her, bully that you 
are; you will still force your hateful attentions upon her, 
still threaten her with ruin, work upon her fears. Do it at 
your peril! She has spoken, and henceforth between her 
and you I stand to guard her from the contamination of a 
gambler and a cheat. 

Poole {rushing at Jerome), Do you dare — 

Jerome {folding his anus). Prove all I have said ? 
Yes, and more. There is a young woman who to her sor- 
row has accepted your promise as that of an honest man. 

Poole. Ah ! {Starts back.) Who told you that ? 

Jerome. One who only waits my motion to tell it to 
your father. 

Poole. And ruin me. 

Jerome. Fulfil that promise, and you are safe. 

Poole. If I refuse? 

Jerome. You will be disinherited. 

Poole (<^j/rtit'). It's Jennie or nothing. {Aloudi) Jerome, 
you have beaten me. With millions in the balance, love 
kicks the beam. I cannot fight you and the old man's 


money. — Miss Moore, you are free. {Aside.) I dare not 
quarrel with him, and I could strangle him. {Turns at 
door, R.) Good-morning. {Exit R.) 

Jerome {t?trns to Marion). Marion, I congratulate you. 
One obstacle to your happiness is removed. 

Marion. Thanks to you. {Gives her hand.) 

Jerome {kisses it). And I am a step nearer heaven. 

Marion. You no longer love Martin Moore's daughter. 
{Withdraws ha?td.) 

Jerome. I still love you. 

Marion. And who am I ? Can you answer that? 

Jerome. In good time, Marion. I am anxiously await- 
ing one who I hope will fulfil the hope I cherish. 
{Enter Pete, c.) 

Pete. Phew ! Nebber had sich a scare in de hole course 
ob my life. 

Jerome. What's the matter, Pete ? 

Pete. Dat ar' howlin' earless boy jes' yanked me all 
ober de beach, an' jes' gwin' to souse me in de brine when 
ole Dick Bell jes' stepped in an' spile de fun for dat ar' 
Texican lassoonatic. 

Jerome. Ah ! has Bell returned ? 

Pete. Yas, indeed. He's comin' arter me. {Goes ta 
door R.) If dat ar earless boy wants to play cow wid me 
agin', I'll butt him into de middle ob nex' week. I ain't de 
kine. {Exit R.) 

Jerome. Marion, I want you to overhear my interview 
with Richard Bell. {Leads her to door L.) Step in here; 
leave the door ajar, and listen. 

Marion. More mystery ? 

Jerome. The clearing of a doubt: you understand ? 

Marion. No, but I have faith in my legal adviser. 
{Exit L.) 

Jerome {crossing to r.). And I in an open door and a 
woman's listening ear. {Enter Richard Bell, c.) Ah ! 
back again, old friend.-' 

Richard {comes down slowly., takes Jerome's hand). 
Yes, back again from a sad pilgrimage. I have been there 
to that little grave in Greenwood. The sun was shining 
brightly; flowers were blooming, and filling the air with fra- 
grance; the birds were singing, and her little bed was soft 
and green. Such perfect peace ! I dared not disturb it 


with a sigh, and my heart was almost bursting with grief. 
(Sits L. of table) 

Jerome. You found it where you expected ? 

Richard. Oh, yes ! I could not be mistaken. Her 
name was on the headstone, — "Little Bell." 

Jerome. You wrote the inscription as I requested? 

Richard. Yes. Here it is. {Gives paper.) It was need- 
less : I shall never forget it, never. Little Bell, my own lost 
little Bell ! 

(Marion appeaj-s in doorway l., her hand to her forehead 
as if trying to recall something.) 

Jerome {reading). "Little Bell, born Jan. 5, 1858, died 
Aug. 5, 1864." (Aside.) What's this? died 1864? Ah! 
Martin Moore, figures won't lie. {Aloud.) Tell me, old 
fellow, about this little girl of yours : where was she born ? 

Richard. Away up in the mountains of California. Ah ! 
those were happy days when the little one came. She 
brought luck with her. We struck the gold that we had 
sought in vain all up and down the banks of our mountain 
stream. Happy days ! Far away from temptation I was a 
man. There were few bonanzas in those days ; I toiled 
hard with pick and washer, contented if a few ounces re- 
ward the labor of a week; happy as I climbed the hill to 
my little cabin where wife and little Bell awaited my return. 
I can see it now, the open door, with the good wife standing 
shading her eyes with her hand, and the little one toddling 
down to meet her old dad. (Marion gradually approaches, 
agitated.) Every night as I neared home, I gathered a hand- 
ful of mountain daisies. The little one was fond of them; 
and as I came in sight her little hands would be outstretched, 
and she would cry — 

Marion {throws herself down in front of Richard, 
clasping his knees, and looking up into his face). Daisies, 
daisies'! for little Bell! 

Richard {sinks back in chair, glaring at Marion). Ah ! 
the very words, the very voice ! what is this ? 

Jerome. The voice of nature. (Martin Moore ap- 
pears., c.) Listen to it, Nathan Roberts : the heart of 5'our 
lost darling pleads for recognition. Your daughter is before 

Richard {clasps her in his ar7ns). My daughter ! 

Martin {coines down l.). What devil's work is this ? 


Jerome {crosses). You can best answer that. ^ 

Martin. That man's child is dead, buried in Green- 
wood. _, ,. , -,1 11 1 -J 

Tfrome. Then the headstone lies. The little Lell buried 
there died in 1S64. Nathan Roberts and his child arrived 
in New York in 1865. {Crosses to R.) 

MAKTm {aside). Baffled! {Aloud.) Marion, I am your 
father: the man whose arms infold you is a murderer. 

Marion {starts up ivith a cry). Ah ! a murderer ! {Goes 
to L. Richard rises) 

Martin {seizing her right wrist). You must away with 
me at once. This is no place for you. 

Richard. No, you shall not escape me thus. I am no 
murderer. The joy of paternity withheld from me for 
twenty years is restored by the warm embrace of that inno- 
cent ^irl who called me father. Had I been the black- 
hearted wretch you brand me, my guilty soul would have 
shrunk in horror from her touch. Let her decide between 


Martin. Answer me this. Did you not, twenty years 
ago in a place {enter Pete, r., with a waiter and dishes on 
//5 called The Flowing Bowl— . -o , ^ 

Pete {dropping the waiter). The Flowing Bowl ? 

Jerome. What do you know of The Flowing Bowl? 

Pete. Why, I was waiter down dar. Dat's whar 1 
entered de profesh. 

Martin. I thought I knew your face. . 

Pete. Yas, an' 1 knowed vours all de time ; an Major 
Fitz too; yas, indeed. Didn't'let on becos I was up in de 
profesh, an' sorter 'shamed ob de ole days. 

Jerome. Were you there when a man cra/ed with liquor 
• assaulted the landlord, and wounded his daughter ? 

Martin. No, he was not present. 

Pete. You're mistook, Massa Moore, I was dar. 1 seed 

it all. , „ , 

Terome. And the child was badly hurt? 

Pete She was awfullv skeered. She jes' run to her 
fader to stop the row, when dat ar' big tumbler come cabim, 
an' — an' she jes' frowed up her arm so, an' de tumbler 
strock right on de wrist so {puts finger across wrist). She 
must hab de scar ob it now. . v. /• ^ 

Marion {wre?iches her hand from Martin's, steps for- 


ward, holding np her 7'ight hand, showing a red scar across 
wi'ist). Was it any thing like this, Uncle Pete? 

Pete, Dat's it, dat's it. An' — an' dat's de same little 
girl : how she's growed ! 

Richard. My own dear little girl 1 

Marion. Father ! {Embrace.) 

Pete. An' — an' dat's de feller what frowed de glass. 

Martin {turns to l.). I can fight no longer. 

Richard. Pete, you have done me a service I shall 
never forget. I am poor in pocket — 

Jerome. But rich in lands, houses, and stocks. You are 
a rich man, Nathan Roberts. 

Richard. Then, you shall lose nothing by your kindly 
act, Pete. 

Pete. Don't mention it: you make me blush. {Exit r.) 

Richard {to Jerome). And you who have been my best 
friend, how can I thank you ? 

Marion. Leave that to me, father: I've no doubt — 

Jerome. Let me speak. Mr. Roberts, having found 
you a daughter, I am anxious to complete your family circle 
by providing you with a son. I love your daughter. 

Richard. As I suspected. I owe you a debt of grati- 
tude I would repay with my heart's blood : that is what you 
are asking of me. What says my girl? 

Marion. I love him, that he truly knows; and life with 
him would be happiness indeed, but I will not have it thus. 
Joyful in our re-union, let me not be ungrateful for the past. 
One who has reared me with a father's care, almost a 
father's tenderness, stands silent and alone. Remembering 
the temptations by which he was beset, the ruin that stared 
him in the face, forgiving all in memory of the kindness in 
the past, I cannot pass from his life without his benediction. 
{To Martin.) Fath'er of the little Bell who lies beneath 
the turf in Greenwood {places her hand on his shoulder, and 
with her right hand seeks his right), deal with me as you 
would have dealt with her, had she lived and loved. May I 
be happy ? 

Martin {ttirns). Heaven bless your union, Marion ! 
You have been a dutiful child. I have wronged you and 
your father. Reared in corruption and infamy, I am no 
repentant sinner. I sought to make merchandise of your 
heart: had I succeeded, I should have rejoiced in my 


triumph. I failed, miserably failed; but I have still manli- 
ness enough to accept defeat without a thought of revenge. 
From my keeping, go to happier days and better life {ivi//i a 
strui^gle)^ " little Bell." {Kisses her hand, exit slmvly l.) 

Richard. He shall not be forgotten, Bell. Twenty 
years of tender care blots out all wrongs. We will consider 
your case, young man. {Puts his ai'm arotmd Marion's 
luaist, and leads her 7ip C.) 

Jerome. In your deliberations consider a lifetime of 
devotion blots out all doubts. 

Major {ojitside). Upon my sowl, Mrs. Morris me dar- 
lin', I niver had sich a foine shtroll but once before, an' 
that's now. 

{Enter, c, with Mrs. Morris on his arm.) 

Mrs. M. Major, I'm afraid I'm doing wrong in consent- 
ing to marry you after my sad experience with three hus- 

Major. Niver you moind, me darlin': I'll not imulate 
their example. I'll not lave you a widdy : on the conthrary, 
I'll shtop behind, and politely lave you to go first. In tliat 
rispict you'll find me the contrariest husband in the world. 
{Enter Jessie, l.) 

Jessie, Why, mammie, where have you been ? 

Mrs. M. On the beach with Major Fitzpatrick, my — 
my future husband. 

Jessie. Why, mother, you haven't been and gone and 
done it again ? 

Mrs. M. Hush, hush, child, no slang! {They converse 

Jerome. Well, Major, is it settled? 

Major. Complately, me by: we put it to vote, and the 
oye had it. You shall dance at me widdin', and drink our 
health in the flowing bowl, me by. 

Jerome. You must beware of that, Major. Remember 
the fate of your predecessors. 

Major. Lave me alone for that. Shure, I'll thrick the 
widdy. She'll not have the satisfaction of seeing me dhrink 
mesiif down among her buried trisures. I'll shware off, and 
become a follower of the saint. 

JeroiME. What saint.? 

Major. St. John, me by. 

Jessie. But what's to become of me? 


Mrs. M. Charlie will take care of you. 

Jessie. But Charlie's gone. 

{E;i/er Charlie, r.) 

Charlie. Not yet, but I'm off by the next train. 

] ESSIE (crossing ^o R.). Off where? 

Charlie. To the West For your sake to become a 

Jessie. No, you're not ; I hate cowbo3's. O Charlie, don't 
leave me! Mother's going to be married, and I v/ant — I 
want to — 

Charlie. To be married ? 

Jessie. If you please. 

Charlie. Glory ! come to my arms. {Htigs her.) The 
cowboy did it, after all. 

Jessie. The cowboy? 

Charlie. Yes, howling Carlos of the perairie — that's 

{Enter Pete, r.) 

Pete. Jes' what I fought, stujent agin ! Hope I may 
nebber die if I didn't see pieces ob crockery stickin' to dat 
ar' earless boy's trouserloons ' 

Jessie. Then, you have been deceiving me, sir. 

Charlie. Only as a test of affection, Jessie. 

Richard {comes down c, leading Marion on his L. to 
Jerome). My daughter has opened her heart to me. Give 
me your hand. {Takes Jerome's 7'lght haiid.) With grati- 
tude for all you have done for me, and with faith that you 
are the man of her choice, I surrender to your keeping my 
treasure. {Joins hands.) In mutual love and trust be 
happy. Once more over the troubled waters of my life the 
tempest is stilled, the black storm-clouds parted, and through 
the rifts the stars appear; but with no despairing heart I 
greet the peaceful rest. Honor and love, with little Bell 
reclaimed, gloom vanishes with the night, and joy cometh 
with the morning. 

{Picture : Richard with left hand on the clasped hands 
of Jerome a7id Marion, c. ; Major and Mrs. M., arm 
in arm, L. ; Charlie ^«^ Jessie, ar?n in arm^ r. ; Pete, 
extreine R. Curtain.) 


The Best Yet. 50 Rare Selections. 

Reading Club and Handy Speaker. 

^ Edited by George M. Baker. 

Price, cloth, 60 cents ; paper, IS cents. 


Count Eberhard's Last Foray Thos. S. Collier. 

ramiuy's Prize 

Deaf and Dumb Anna F. Bumham. 

The Changed Cross 

Virgjnius to the Roman Army Elijah Kellogg. 

The Fountain of Youth Eezekiah Buiterworth, 

They Met 

Clerical Wit 

Greeley's Ride Mark Twain. 

Der Shoemaker's Poy , 

The Sergeant of the Fiftieth 

The Fan Drill Spectator. 

Warning to Woman 

The Cavalry Charge F. A. Ihirivage. 

Widow Stebbins on Homoeopathy Charles F. Adams. 

The Fight at Lookout Ji. L. Gary, Jun. 

The Well-Digger John G. Saxe. 

Behind Time Freeman Hunt. 

A Miracle Charles H. Webber. 

Wea^^ng the Web 

The Great Future George F. Hoar. 

A Christmas Carol 

" Them Yankee Blankits " Samuel W. Small. 

Jim Lane's Last Message Sherman D. Richardsoik 

One Touch of Nature 

A Disturbance in Church Max Adeler. 

The Palmer's Vision J. G. Holland. 

A "Sweeter Revenge" 

The Farmer's Story David Hill. 

Paddy O'Rafther . . . . „ Samuel Lover. 

The Fireman's Prayer Russell H. ConweU. 

Down with the Heathen Chinee ! ITew- York Sun. 

John Chinaman's Protest M. F. D. 

The Sweet Singer of Michigan 

Ten Years After JSTate Putnam Osgood, 

Putty and Varnish Josh Billings. 

Nationality Rufus Choate. 

Tacking Ship off Shore Walter Mitvhel. 

Immortality . Phillips Brooks. 

Mr. Coville ProTes Mathematics J. M. Bailey. 

Blind Ned Irwin Russell. 

The Benediction Franqois Coppee. 

•' Conquered at Last " Maria L. Eve. 

The Ship-Boy's Letter 

An Irish Love-Letter George M. Baker, 

Reserved Power 

Talk about Shooting 

The King's Kiss Ifora Perry. 

Joe's Bespeak 

A Disturbed Parent 

^Id by all booksellers and newsdealers, and sent by mail, postpaid, on 
receipt of price. 

LEE & SHEPARD^ Publishers. Boston, 

V«M wirr nm4 Hothine buf nf Q«m« in fh« ^ M^^Vni t*U«t i »o bi Ito 

Reading-Club and 3andy Speaker. 


Edited by Gkorqs M. Baker. 
Frioe, doth, SO cents ; paper, IS centi. 


A. Royal Princess Christina G. Jlo8$etlL 

K Reminiscence H. B. Booker, D.f* 

The Last Hymn Marianne Famingkam 

The Fool's Prayer Atlantic. 

The Dead Student WiU Carleton. 

Greatest Walk on Seoord 

Drawing Water 

This Side and That George Macdon0U- 

Civil War Anonymous, 

A Modem Sermon 

That Calf . . . . ; PJuebe Cofy. 

The New Dixie . , G, L. C. 

The National Game 

Unple Mellick Dines with his Master . . , J. X. Eggleston. 

Al^d's Misery 

San Benito Helen M. GHhert 

How Randa went over the Biver . , . . C. C. Cofin. 

The Ladies Mark Tuiain. 

Two Fishers Harper's Weektu. 

Left Alone at Eighty 

•' Dashing Rod," Trooper 8. Conant Foster, 

Orient Yourself ........ Horace Mann. 

Rhymes at Random 

The Carpenter's Wooing, and the Sequel . . Tatocob Strauss, 

A Humorous Dare-Devu Bultoer. 

Hohenlinden Campbell. 

St. Leon's Toast 

The Patriot Spy , , , F. M. Finch. 

How Neighbor WUkins got Keliglon . . . James Berry Bensel 

Jim Wolfe and the Cats Mark Twain. 

Pledge to the Dead William Winter, 

A London Bee Story ....... Quiz. 

A College Widow Acta ColunMana. 

" He Giveth His Beloved Sleep " . . . . J. C. Huntington, 

Hannibal at the Altar Elijah Kellogg, 

Creeds of the BeUs J, W. Bungay. 

The Pomological Society 

Ave Maria Comhill Magaakte 

The Singer's Alms ........ 

Family Portraits School for Scandal, 

The Irish Boy and the Priest ..... 

The Retort . 

A Free Seat 

Paddle Your Own Canoe 

All 'B Well ti^at Ends WeU 

Jimmy Butler and the Owl Auonvmoue. 

A Modern Heroine SUzabeth CumimM 

Dowi: Hill with the Brakes Off G. H Jessop. 

On the Channel Boat O, L, C. 

The Pin 

Wokl »y aU booksellers and newsdealers, and sent by mail^ postpmidf ft 

receipt of price, 

LEE & SHEPARD, Publishers^ Boston. 

You will find both Wif and Sentimenf in ihe 50 Choice Selections in the 

Reading-Olub and Handy Speaker. 

Edited by Geougk M. Baker. 
Price, cloth, 50 cents ; paper, 15 cents. 



The Defence of Lucknow . 
Paul Clifford's Defence . . 
The Outlaw's Yam . 
Labor is Worship . • • 
The Legend of the White Hand 
Two Dreams .... 
People will Laugh . 
" Christianos ad Leones I " . 
Ballad of the Bell-Tower . 
A Sermon for the Sisters 
Mrs Brown at the Play 
Dutca Security ...» 
From One Stand-point . 
The Captive .... 
The Peril of the Klines . 
Aunt Phillis's Guest 
Annie's Ticket .... 
Along tlie Line . . . • 
The Divorce Feast . 
Tlie Indian Warrior's Defence 
The Farmer and the Barrister 
Yankee Courtship . 
London Zoologiwil Gardens 
Apples — A Comedy 
Old Grimes 




Daisy's Faith .... 

Father William . . . > 

Parody on " Father William 

The Grave of the Greyhound 

A New Version of the Parable of 1 

Song of the Mystic . 

The Fast Mail • • • , ^ , 

De 'Sperience ob de Reb'rend Quacko 

The Patter of the Shingle 

The Girl of the Crisis . 

The Rich Man and the Poor Man 

A Colored Debating Society 

Shiftless Neighbor Ball 

Lanty Leary .... 

The Baron's Last Banquet . 

The Last of the Sarpints 

The Dilemma .... 

A Brick 

An Evangel o . . . 
A Thirsty Boy .... 
Masked Batteries . . . 
The Story of the Tiles . 
The City Man and Setting Hen 
Miss Edith's Modest Request 
The Man with a Bear 
Sold by all booksellers and newsdealers, and sent by mail, post-paid, o4 
receipt of price. 

LEE & SHEPARD, Publishers, Boston. 

Michael Lynch. 
Francis S. Osgood. 
Luctf Wade Herrick. 

Francis A. Dnrivage. 
Margaret J. I'reston. 
Irvnn Russell. 
'Arthur Sketchley. 

M. P. Butts. 
Henry Phillips, Jr. 

Wm. C. Gannett. 

Irwin Russell. 

Horace Smith. 

Blachwood^s Magazine. 

A. G. Green. 

Joanna H. Matheios. 

R. Sotithey. 

Adventures ill Wonder cand 


Father Ryan. 
John H. Yates, 

Walter Smith. 

Mrs. Annie Preston, 
Samuel Lover. 
A. G. Green. 

O. W. Holmes. 

Burlington Hawkeye, 
" Vanity Verses,'* 
Golden Age. 

Bret Ilarte. 

Acknowledged fhe Best. 50 of the Choicest Selections in the 

Reading-Olub and Handy Speaker. 

Edited by George M. Baker. 
Price, cloth, 50 cents ; paper, 15 cents. 


The Spinning-wheel B. F. Taylor. 

The Hero- Woman George Lippard. 

The Song of the North Lizzie Doten. 

No Color Line in Heaven „ r. • 4 ■ 

Ginf^erbread San Francisco ArgoncoO. 

A Night Watch ,, , ,r , -77 

The Loves of Lucinda Mark Melvtlle. 

The Widow of Nain iV. P Willis. - 

The Tomato Charles F. Adams. 

Lookout Mountain, 1863— Beutelsbach, 1880 Geo. L. Catlin. 

The Little Girl'e Song Sydney Dobell. ^ 

" Papa says so, too " Jenme T. Hazen Lewis, 

Tlie Poetry of Iron Burlington Hawkeye. 

Hannah r^,. ,, ot 

An Old Man's Dreams Fliza M. Sherman. 

Don Squixet's Ghost Harry Bolingbroke. 

The Kino^'s Bell Eben E Rexford. 

The Tramp of Shiloh Joaquin Miller. 

Johnny on Snakes „„^^, 

Antony to Cleopatra Gen. Wm. H Lytle. 

Cleopatra Dying Tliom. S. Collier. 

(jheek Phillips Thompson. 

The Right must Win Frederic William Faber. 

Make the Best of Everything .... 

The Dagger Scene from " The Wife " . .J. Sheridan Knowles, 

The Calif Lda T. Thurston. 

The Man wich didn't drink Wotter . . 

Mice at Play Neil Forrest. 

Jan Steener's Ride John W. Chadwick, 

Setting a Hen 

The Marked Grave Lillie E. Barr, 

A Very Naughty Little Girl's Views of Life 

The Dandy Fifth Frank H. Gassnway, 

The Holly Branch *' Broionie.'^ 

Antoinette Francis A. Durivage. 

Claribel's Prayer Lynde Palmer, 

The Marriage of Santa Claus .... 

A Similar Case 

Selling the Farm Beth Day. 

*' He and She " Edwin Arnold. 

The Legend of the Organ-builder . . . Julia C. R. Dorr. 
The One-Legged Goose . . . . . 

The Owl Critic James T. Fields. 

Time Robertson. 

The Sleep Mrs. E. B. Browning, 

She would be a Mason James C. Laughton. 

The Legend of Saint Barbara .... Mary A. P. Stansbury. 

Reviving de Sinners 

Awfully Lovely Philosophy .... 

Life in Death B. P. Shillaber. 

Sold by all booksellers and newsdealers, and sent by mail, post-paid, on 
receipt of price, 

LEE & SHEPARD, Publishers, Boston. 

Acknowledged the Best. 50 of the Choicest Selections in the 

01ft Reading-Olub and Handy Speaker* 

Edited by Geokge M. Bakkr. 
Price, cloth, 50 cents ; paper, 15 cents, 


The Story of a Stowaway Punch. 

A Purpose ..••••••• 

Building and Being , » From '^ Geraldine/* 

The Round of Life Chambers^ Journal. 

The Clown's Baby .*••••• Margaret Vandegrift. 

Our Baby ...•••••• 

Sooner or Later ..•••••• Harriet Prescott SpoffoTik 

Autumn Thoughts ...••«. Bill Nye. 

The Cruise of the Monitor . . • • . George M. Baker, 

No Yearning for the Beautiful • • . . Max Adeler. 

Ravenswood's Oath . . . • • • , A. IVallace Thaxter. 

The Widow to her Son ..«••. The Dublin Freeman, 

The Banker and the Cobbler . • • • • Lafontaine, 

Rather Embarrassing , 

Saving Motlier e • • 

The Sharpshooter's Miss ...«•. Frank H. Gassaway, 
Brndder Johnson on 'Lectiicity . • • • 

Union of Blue and Gray Paul H. Hayne, 

The Jackdaw of Rheims ...... Barham. 

Death ofthe Old Wife 

Squire Houston's Marriage Ceremony 

The Baffled Book Agent 

Scene from Mary Stuart Schiller. 

A Christmas Elegy ....... 

Conversion of Colonel Quagg George Augustus SallU 

The Confession Lover. 

A Court Lady E. Barrett Browning, 

Tickled all Oaf er , 

A Penitent Margaret Eytinge, 

Nebnchadnezzah ...... • Erwin Russsl. 

Death of Steerforth Dickens. 

The Serenade . 

The " Ole Marster's" Christmas . • • . Atlanta Constitution, 

How the Colonel took it • Walter Thornbury. 

Robert Emmett's Last Speech .... 

The Parting Ijovers ....... Mary E. Day. 

This Means You, Girls .... . . Peck^s Sun. 

Ramon Bret Harte. 

The Vay Rube Hoffenstein Sells .... 

Wild Weather Outside Margaret E. SangsUtk 

Young Grimes • . . jB. P. Shillaber. 

Autumn Leaves. A Comedietta ... 

Hark! Rose Terry Cooke. 

Intensely Utter Albany Chronicle, 

Charge of the Heavy Brigade .... Tennyson. 

The Chain of Gold 

Gartield J. G. Blaine. 

No Time like the Old Time ..... Anonymous. 

Carcassonne Gustave Nadaud. 

The Mate of the Betsey Jane .... Anonymous. 

Sold by all booksellers and newsdealers, and sent by mail, post-paid^ M 
receipt of price. 

LEE & SHEPARD, Publishers, Boston. 



Edited by George M. Baker. 
Price, cloth, 50 cents ; paper, 15 cents* 


The Cataiact of Lodore Robert Soiithey. 

A Glimpse of Death From A Tv/ht SqueezSo 

Reflections on the Needle Cormac (fLeary, 

The Red G'Neil Thomas S. Collier, 

ViVuinnv ! » ^- ^- Cook. 

Convent Robliinor Robert Bixchanan. 

For Life and Death ........ 

Matrnificent Poverty Victor Huqo. 

O'thello Harper's Mignzins. 

Washee, Washee Joaquin Miller. 

Last Upon the Roll Hugh M. McDermott. 

A Second Review of tlie Grand Army . Bret Harte. 

Going Towards Sundown . . . . .*^ . Hattie E. Buell. 

" Treadwater Jim" " Old Si" in Jacksonville Time8> 

Yawcob Strauss C F. Adams. 

Leedle Yawcob Strauss — What He Says Arthur Dakin. 

The Closing Scene ' . T. Buchayian Read. 

Drifted Out to Sea ........ Rose Hart loick Thorpe, 

Tlie Old Man Goes to Town J. G. Siainnerton. 

Suckers on de Corn 

The Crutch in the Corner John Mcintosh, 

The Bivouac of the Dead O'Hara. 

"Nearer Home" Phnebe Cary. 

The Snow Storm R. \V. Emerson. 

The Unforgotten Foe ....... Epes Sargent. 

The Charge at Valley Maloy .... 

The Countersign was " Mary " . . . . Margaret Ei/tinge. 

Pat's Bondsman Lilian A. Moulton, 

What Saved the Union Gen. Grant. 

Wreck of tlie White Ship ....,, Charles Dickens. 
" Mebbe " Joe's True Feesh Story . . 

Bitj Ben BoUon Eugene J. Hall. 

The Child's Evening Prayer Mary A. Denison, 

Abraham Lincoln and the Poor Womau 

" Picciola" 

" Fall In" • Mary Clemmer. 

Mvsterious Rappiags c , B. P. Shillaber. 

Kellv's Ferry . . . . Benjamin F. Taylor, 

Paddy's Metamorphosis Moore. 

Mr. Murphy Explains His Son's Conduct 

Variegated Dogs Peck's Sun. 

No Precedent 

The Wonderfid Tar-Baby Story . . . Harris 

The Captain's Tale » From A Summer in the Azores, 


A Clear Bargain , . . . .... 

Garibaldi and His Companions .... Thomas Russell, 

Pericles to the People Kellogg. 

Roland Gray 

The Silver Cup ......... 

In fitf Edited by George M. Baker. 

Price, cloth, 50 cents ; paper, 15 cents, 


Memory James A. Garfield. 

Nancy Sikes Charles Dickens. 

Sun-iBiivst Thomas S. Collier. 

The Little Presbyterian Maid , . , , St. Leon. 

Tlie Fire Worshippers Geo. M. Baker. 

Liicille's Mistake o . . 

Awkward J. Cheever Goodiom 

"The Bovs Who Never Got Home" . . George IV. Peck. 
Two Wavs of Telling a Story . . . . 11. K. Oliver. 

Mike McGatiatv's Dos? .* Mark Melcille. 

Tlie Three Little Chairs ..,..„ 

ISLikin;? Love in the Clioir 

How Dennis Took the Pledge .... 

Jiuioe Pitman's Watch . . o . . . Max Adeler. 

The .Esthetic Housekeeper 

'J'he Public Grindstone Gen. Riley. 

The Postilion of Nagold . . ... Geo. L. Catlin, 

Pe<i-_ging Away 

Katie's Answer 

The Enoch of Calaveras F. Bret Harte, 

An Ideal of Woman Henty Giles. 

A Bad Mix 

Asleei> at the Switch George Hoey. 

INIoney Musk B. F. Taylor. 

Pat and the Pi": 

Scene from I^eah the Forsaken . . . 

The Night After Christmas 


The Old Knight's Treasure Henry Morford. 

The Discontented Pendulum .... Jane Taylor. 

The New Church Doctrine W. M. Carleion. 

Penn's Monument R. J. Burdett. 

Only a Crippled Soldier J. Russell Fisher. 

The Doctor's Wedding Hezekiah Butterworth 

The Policeman's Story 

The Veterans . . . ' General Sherman. 

How He Made It 

Sitj-ning the Pledge , . 

Fire! Fire! Meriem. 

Concurrent Testimony 

The Cruise of the "Nancy Jane" . . 

The War with Alcohol W. E. Williams. 

Asking the Gov'nor. . 

The Soldiers' Monument John L. Swift. 

Good-Bye, Proud World R. \V. Emerson. 

The Funny Small Boy H. C. Dodge, 

The House that Jack Jiuilt 

Blind Ned Irwin Russell. 

How Tim's Prayer was Answered . . . 

LitUe Rocket's Christmas Vandyke Bootrn. 

A Jack at all Trades . . Scenes from '^Comrades." Geo. M.Bake%. 

Acknowledged the Best. 50 of the Chortest Selections in the 



Edited by Georgb M. Bakee. 
Price, cloth, 50 cents ; paper, 15 cents. 


The Death of Mogg Megone . 

yacred Relics of the Past 

Auction Extraordinary . 

The Railroad Crossing . 

Goin' to Liza's 

" Make it Four, Yer Honor" 

The Old Maid's Prayer . 

Sequel to the Old Maid's Prayer 

Peace, Be Still 

A Rcini for Ould Oireland 

Choosing a Cow 

" Little Potter's " Story 

Drinking a Tear 

A Sunset Prophecy 

Candor ..... 

Art is Pitiless .... 

The Death of Thomas Becket 

The Old Tuine String . 

Little Elfin's Plea . 

How Vera Cruz was won 

Ticket o' Leave 

The " O'Meara Consolidated " 

A Vengeance .... 

The Orphan Boy 

The Statue Scene . 

"Jesus, Lover of my Soul " . 

A Political Outfit . 

The Eaglet and the Child 

The Story of the Swords 

A Apele for Are to the Sextant 

A Colored Sermon . 

" Tom's Dead! "... 


The Ruined Man 
Popping Corn .... 
Lady Yeardley's Guest . 
An "Assorted " Declamation 
The Death of the Dominie 
A Piece of Bunting 
Chicken Talk .... 
Planchette .... 
The Mount of the Holy Cross 
Cold Water .... 
Tipperary .... 


Middlerib's Rheumatic Cure . 

The Wisdom of Aii 

A Christmas Ballad 

Mr. Collins's Croquet-Set 

The Gridiron .... 


Weiidell PhUlipH. 
Lucretia Davidson. 
Hezekiuh Strong. 
T. N. Cook. 

Chattanooga Delta. 
Nell Gi-afton. 

E. T. Corbett. 

Marion Harland, 
Harper's Weekly. 
Mary D. Brine. 
J. A. Froude. 
Maria L. Eve, 
Mary L. Wright. 

George R. Sims. 
Edgar Fawcett. 

Eugene J. Hall, 
li. J. Bnrdette. 
Good Words. 

Adelaide Cilley Waldron, 
Arabella WiUson. 
George Stearns. 
Laura G. W. White. 
J. C. B., in Chaff. 
William Winter. 
J. M. Thompson. 
Margaret J. Preston. 
Herman Page. 
Thomas Hood. 
Hon. F. W. Palmer. 

David Hill. 
James G. Clark. 
Fugitive Poems. 
Fugitive Poems. 
C. Edwin Dudley. 
R. J. Burdette. 
Bayard Taylor. 
Thomas S. Collier. 

William B. Foiole. 

Sold by all booksellers and newsdealers, and sent by mail, postjyaid, on 
receipt of price. 

LEE AND SHEPARD, Publishers, Boston. 


Price, 25 Cents eacli. 

1. COUPON BONDS. A Drama in Four Acts. By J. 1. Trowbridge 
Dramatised from tbe story of that name. Seven male, three female 
,naracters. Three scenes. Modern costumes. Easily produced. 

a. UNDE B A VEIL.. A Comedietta in One Act. By Siu Randall Roberts, 
Bart. Two male, three female characters. Scene, interior. Double room. 
Time in representation, thirty minutes. 

.3. CLASS DAY. A Farce in One Act. By Dr. Francis A. Harris. Four 
male, three female characters. Scene, interior. Played at Harvard wiih 
great success. 

4. BETTER THAN GOtD. A Drama in Four Acts. By George M. 

Baker. Five male, four female characters. One interior; same for the 
four acts. 

5. MRS. WALTHROP'S BACHELORS. A Comedy in Three Acts. 

Translated and adapted from tlic German of Beuedix. By George M. 
Bakeu and Willaud Small. (" Our Bachelors" and "Mrs. Walthrop's 
Boarders " were translated from the same.) 

6. OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. A Comedy in Four Acts. Dramatised from 

the novel by Charles Dickens. By Harriet R. Shattuck. Four male, 
three female characters. 

7. REBECCA'S TRIUMPH. A Drama in Three Acts. By George M. 

Baker. (For female characters only.) Sixteen characters. Scenes are : 
Act 1, kitchen. Act 2, woods. Act 3, parlor. Written at the request of 
the " D.O.C; Cooking Club," of Chicago, -who took "Among the Breakers " 
as a model. 

8. APPLES. Comedy in One Act frcvo Blackwood's Magazine. One male, two 

female characters. 

9. BABIE. Comedy in Three Acts. Translated from the French of Emile de 

Najac and Alfred Hennquin, y F. E. Chase. Six male, five female 

10. A PERSONAL, MATTER. Comedy in One Act. By F. E. Chase. Two 

male, and two female characters. 

11. COMRADES. A Drama in Three Acts. By George M. Baker. Four 

male, three female characters. Scene, interior. Costumes moderr 
Always successful. 
18. SNOW-BOUND. A Musical and Dramatic Entertainment, jiy George \ 
Baker. For three male and one female characters ; requires some scenery, 
but can be easily.produced. Introduces (..ongs, recitaiions, and an original 
Burlesque, "Alonzo the Brave and the Fair Imogene." Time, two hours. 

13. BON-BONS. A Musical and Dramatic Entertainment. By George M. 

Baker. For four performers : three male, one female. Requires little 
scenery; introduces songs, recitations, and an original Burlesque, "The 
■ Paint King." Time in representation, two hours. 

14. PAST REDEMPTION. A New Temperance Drama in Four Acts. By 

George M. Baker. Nine male, and four female characters, and super* 
nuraeraries. Scenery : three interiors, one exterior. 

15. NEVADA ; or, The L^ost Mine. Drama, in Three Acts. By George M . 

Baker. Eight male, three female characters. Scenery, exterior and in- 
terior of a Miner's Cabin in Nevada. Time, about two hours. 

16. POISON. A Farce, as acted by the Hasty Pudding Club of Harvard College 

with great success. Four male, three female characters. Time, thirty 

17. THE COOIi COLLEGIANS. Comedy in Two Acts, by Miles Medic: 

three n?ale and four female characters. 

Price, 15 Cents. 

18. LORDS OF CREATION. A Comedy in Three Acts. By Ella Cheeveb 

Thayer. Five male and five female characters. Scenes, interior. Price I5c. 

19. MATC^MAKEKS. A Comedietta in One Act. Two male and two female 

characters. Price, loctfi. 
SO. iHE GRIOAT UMBRELLA CASE; A Mock Trial. ByF. E. Chase, 
Fifth Mdition just ready. Price, IJjts. 

GEO. M, BAKER & CO., No. 10 Milk Street, Bostoa 



Author of "Amateur Dramas," " The Mimic Stage,'' "7 
Room Stage" " Handy Dramas," " The Exhibition Druma 
Titles in this Type are New Plays. 
Titles in this Type are Temperance Plays. 

015 785 397 1^ 

^ aaiter^s UozenT etc. 


In Four Acts. 

Better Than Gold. 7 male, 4 female 
char. . ' 


In Three Acts. 

Our Folks. 6 male, 5 female char. . , 15 
The Flower ol the Family. 5 

male, 3 female char 15 

Enlisted for the War, 7 male, 3 fe- 
male characters 15 

My Brother's Keeper. 5 male, 3 fe- 
male char IS 

The Little Brown Jug, 5 male, 3 

female char 15 

In Two Acts. 

Above the Clouds. 7 male, 3 female 
characters 15 

One Hundred Years Ago. 7 male, 
4 female char 15 

Among the Breakers. 6 male, 4 female 
char. 15 

bREAD ON the Waters. s male, 3 female 
char. IS 

Down by thk Sea. 6 male, 3 female 
char IS 

Once on a Time. 4 male, 2 female char. 15 

The JLast Loaf. 5 male, 3 female char. 15 
/« One A ct. 

Stand by the Flag, s male char . > . 15 

The Tempter, 3 male, i female char. 15 


A. Mysterious Disappearance. /, 

male, 3 female char 

Paddle "JTour Own Canoe. 7 male, 

3 female char 

A. Drop too Much. 4 male, 2 female 

A Little More Cider. 5 male, 3 fe- 
male char 

A Thorn Among the Roses. 2 male, 6 
female char. 

Never Say Die. 3 male, 3 female char. 

Seeing the Elephant. 6 male, 3 female 

The Boston Dip. 4 male, 3 f»male char. 

The Duchess of Dublin. 6 male, 4 fe- 
male char 

Thirty Minutes for Refreshments. 

4 male, 3 female char 

We're all Teetotalers, 4 male, a fe- 
male char 

^ Male Characters Only. 

A Close Shavb. 6 char 

A I'uBLic Benefactor. 6 char. .... 
A Ska of T^ovbles. 8 chair, c . . . . 

COMEDIES, &c., continued. 

Male Characters Only. 
A Tender Attachment. 7 char. . , • 

Coals of Fire. 6 char 

Freedom of the Press. 8 char. , , , 
Shall Our Mothers Vote ? n char. 
Gentlemen of the Jury 12 char. ~ . 
Humors of the Strike. 8 char. . . 
My Uncle the Captain. 6 char. . . 
New Brooms Sweep Clean. 6 char. , 

The Great Elixir. 9 char 

The Hypochondriac. 5 char. .... 
The Man 'with the Demijohn, 4 

char. . . 

The Runaways. 4 char. . . ■ . . 
The Thief of Time. 6 char. . . . 
Wanted, a Male Cook. 4 char. .. . •, 

Female Characters L ^nly, 

A Love of a Bonnet. 5 char. . is 

A Precious Pickle. 6 char. . , , . 15 

No Cure no Pay. 7 char. 15 

The Champion' OF Her Sex. 8 char. . 15 

The Greatest Plague in Life. 8 cha. 15 

The Grecian Bend. 7 char 15 

The Red Chignon. 6 char. .... 15 

Using the Weed. 7 char. 15 


Arranged /or Music and Tableaux. 

Lightheakt's Pilgrimage. 8 female 
char 15 

The Revolt of the Bees. 9 female 
char 15 

The Sculptor's Triumph, i male, 4 fe- 
male char. 15 

The Tourn.\ment of Idylcourt. 10 
female char. 15 

Thf ^Var of the Rosf^. 8 female char. 11 


An Original Idea, i male, i female 
char, IS 

Bonbons ; or, the Paint King. 6 male, 
1 female char 25 

Capuletta ; or, Romeo and Juliet 
Restored. ->> male, i female char. . 15 

Santa Claus' Frolics. ...... 15 

Snow-bound ; or, Alonzo the Brave 
and the Fair Imogene. 3 male, i 
female char A * ^^ 

The Merry Christmas of the Old 
Woman who lived in a Shoe. . , 15 

The Pedler of Vixry Nice. 7 male 
char • »S 

The Seven Ages. A Tableau Entertain- 
ment. Numerous ^nale and female char. 15 

Too Late for the Train. 2 male char. 15 

Thk Visions of Freedom. 11 female 
(cfeWc .... .... • • »3 

GEORGE M. BAKER k CO., Old South Biock, No. 10 Milk St., Boston. 


015 785 3S7 T 

HoUinger Corp.